“Oh, so very amusing, darling,” he spat spitefully, his voice a dangerous growl.
I stuck my chin out. “You think I’m joking? Because I’m not.”
“For your information, I’ve left the pot to soak on the counter on purpose and with every intention of cleaning it later. If you’d taken a moment to look around, you’d see that all the other dishes are done and I’ve wiped down the counter.”
I lifted my hands and gave him three slow claps, knowing I was being insufferable but lacking the mental energy to care. “Congratulations. You’ve wiped down the counters for the first time in over fourteen years of marriage. What do you want? A cookie?”
Greg responded through gritted teeth. “No, Fe. I don’t require treats for good deeds. But I would like some acknowledgement that I have been listening to you, and I am trying to do better. Yet all I’m hearing is that I’m needed only for the most mundane of tasks. Thank you for clarifying how desperately I’m needed.” He moved to turn away, hurt written on his features, so I gripped his wrist to stop him and yanked him back.
“That’s right, Greg. I need you for the most mundane of tasks, because that’s what marriage and parenting is. It’s the mundane. It’s the everyday. It’s the showing up and being there and supporting each other in a million different small ways that add up to a colossal commitment. It’s consistency.”
“Because you have everything else under control, right?” His words were laced with resentment, and based on the venom in his voice and the accusatory daggers shooting from his eyes, he was expecting me to answer with a Yes. I do. I have everything sorted, except the soaking oatmeal dish.
Instead I said, “No. I don’t. I’m a complete mess. I’m frantic for you. Yet I feel abandoned when you leave for your assignments. But I can forgive you for that. What I can no longer forgive or overlook is that you abandon me even when we’re together. You abandoned me in Enugu, and you abandon me when you’re here.”
He swallowed thickly, his eyes flickering between mine, and when he spoke the sentiment was jagged and rough. “Then tell me what to do. Tell me how I can help in a way that’s meaningful.”
“I don’t want to tell you; I want you to just do it without me having to spell it out all the time!”
“Too bad. I’m not a fucking mind reader. You can’t expect me to know without some direction. At this point I’ll even accept Morse code.”
“Fine.” I folded my arms over my chest and lifted my chin stubbornly. “I need you to help with the laundry. Fold it. And put it away, neatly, where it belongs.”
He opened his mouth as though he were going to give me a sarcastic retort, but then stopped himself. His eyes narrowed on me, examining my upturned face, and he blinked three times in rapid succession. “Wait a minute. This isn’t about the laundry, or the dishes, or the vacuuming.”
“Yes, it is. And it’s also about you leaving your socks all over the place, and your inability to find things or put them back where they belong, and—”
“It is, but it isn’t. Something has happened. Something has changed.”
I pressed my lips together and swallowed with effort, meeting his searching gaze. “I’ve changed. You leaving me in Enugu while you risked your life—without even discussing it with me, as though my contributions and abilities were meaningless—changed me.”
Greg gathered a deep breath and his voice was raw and ragged with blunt honesty. “I don’t know how to be sorry for that. I honestly don’t. But you must know, your contributions and abilities, they’re not meaningless to me. Rather, I hope one day you’ll understand my fear of losing you—or Jack, or Grace—my desire to keep you all safe surpasses even my respect for your feelings. And I don’t know how to change that about myself. I don’t know if I can, or that I want to.”
I stared at him for a beat, seeing this desire in him to keep his family safe at all costs as both wonderful and counterproductive. Any decision founded solely in fear, with no regard for evidence or common sense, is ultimately destructive. We needed to find a balance.
Before I could voice these thoughts, he asked, “Does it matter to you what I want?”
I thought about his question for exactly two seconds, then responded with honesty fueled by fury, my throat constricting with each word spoken. “Yes. It matters to me what you want, but I honestly don’t think I can do anything about it anymore. I am at the end of my rope. So, no. No, it doesn’t matter what you want. And it doesn’t matter what I want. Because, guess what? I’m pregnant!”