Family

“You never listen,” was the complaint Eve would make over and over again, and for a while it was true.

We used to take walks around the neighborhood every day in the summer, we’d talk about our day or just hold hands together in silence. Then there was work and the kids and getting Susan to fencing class, Teddy to scouts. It took a lot of time, and it often felt like I was just a chauffeur.

In the mean time, you would stay home. But when I got home, there were still dirty dishes, and food to cook, and the house wasn’t clean, and you would be sitting there on your computer or sleeping. “Why don’t we ever do anything together any more?”

“I’m just too tired all the time,” you said. “I can’t seem to get things started.”

“I’m running around with the kids, and you’re just lazing around,” I’d shoot back

“I’m not lazy,” then you’d cry, leave the house, or up to bed and slam the door.

That would be the fight, and they’d always end with you leaving me, leaving us. One way or the other, you were always leaving. I’d tried to get you to stay. When Susan was born, I didn’t complain about the laundry or the cleaning. I would just do what needed to be done. But it turns out that empathy is not inexhaustible. I tried too when Teddy was born.

“Let’s go for a walk after dinner tonight.”

“It’s too late,” you’d say. “It’s so hard to get moving.”

I’d drag you out, and things would be good for a little while, then it was back to leaving and slamming doors.

“What’s wrong with mommy?” Teddy’d ask. What could I say?

Postpartum depression, they said. We tried therapy, several times. She’d go a few weeks, but there was always a reason she stopped. Then back to “You never listen,”

“I’m listening now. I am. But you stopped talking. Stopped trying.” I say bending down, placing the flowers on her grave.