Fight For Us

As I leaned down to pull the last of the socks out of the laundry basket, I sniffed, trying to keep my nose from dripping on the clean laundry. Sighing, I dropped the socks onto the bed and grabbed a tissue from the nightstand. Even though it was already June, the last of my seasonal allergies refused to let go.

Then again, maybe it was for the best. It was easy to blame my red eyes and sniffling on the unusually high pollen count since it was half-true anyway. The excuse made it easier to hide the fact that I was crying far more often than usual these days. I was grateful for the explanation, but I had no idea what I would do once summer arrived in all of its hot, sweaty glory, and my seasonal allergies could no longer take the blame.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if I could just pinpoint the reason for my foul mood. Every little thing sent me into a spiral of tears, or worse, the nearly irrepressible urge to punch someone or something. It was like never-ending PMS, something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

As I paired off the socks and folded them, I examined my life – the same now as it had been for the past five years. I was still working from home, a change I made in preparation for the family we never started. Dave and I got up at the same time every day. He rushed out the door, sometimes remembering to kiss me on the cheek or yell “I love you!” as he walked out the door. I rolled out of bed, woke up my body with a half hour of yoga, showered, dressed, grabbed breakfast, and sat down at my desk for another day of work. In the evenings, I cooked dinner, which we sat and ate in front of the TV.

It wasn’t the life I imagined.

We got married young and fast because we were so sure of ourselves and each other. I could remember how it felt back then – on our own for the first time, learning how to be adults together. Everything was new and different and exciting.

Now, I was on the sidelines watching my friends get married and have children, and I was left wondering what happened to that excitement in my life.

I didn't stop loving him. But I did find myself wondering where my life was going and how he was making it better.

We weren’t trying anymore. Neither of us had ever been big on romantic gestures, but even the little things had stopped. Not all at once, and I don’t think I noticed it right away. But little by little, Dave stopped opening doors for me. He stopped doing little chores around the house when he noticed they needed to be done. He stopped grabbing me from behind, wrapping me in one of his bear hugs.

And if I was completely honest with myself, I had stopped, too. I had stopped sneaking little notes for him into his pockets. I rarely bought him his favorite candy when I went shopping anymore. I often went to bed without wishing him good night or saying “I love you.”

I dropped the last of the socks onto the bed and started crying – big, heaving sobs that nearly threatened to suffocate me. Was my marriage over? Did I let it fade away without even noticing?

I coasted through the rest of that day, barely registering what I was doing. My mind was a whirlpool of swirling thoughts. Is it my fault? What could I have done differently? Is my marriage a lost cause? Is it too late? What happens if he leaves me?

Five o’clock rolled around, and I could barely breathe as I waited to hear Dave’s car pull into the driveway. I didn’t know what I’d say, but I knew I had to say something.

I stared at the door until he walked through it. He was startled when he saw me. “Hi,” he said with an awkward smile. He took in my expression, my fidgeting hands, my red eyes, and his smile turned into a concerned frown. “What’s wrong?”

I had wanted to stay calm and collected, to explain my concerns thoughtfully and logically. But all that went out the window the second he spoke those words. I burst into fresh sobs and threw my arms around his middle.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he repeated. “Did something happen?”

It took me far longer than I care to admit to calm down enough to talk to him. Dave led me to the couch and sat down next to me, holding me and rubbing my back, speaking softly and soothingly as I sobbed. Finally, I could breathe deeply enough to speak through my tears, and I told him everything. I told him my fears. I described the things he no longer did for me and the things I no longer did for him. I told him how much it hurt, how lonely I felt.

As the last of it spilled out of me, I realized how truly terrified I was. Dave was my best friend, the one person in my life who knew me, understood me, and stayed by my side anyway. I wasn’t happy, but I still loved him. Had I just ruined my own life?

Dave looked at me long and hard. I sat uncomfortably under his silent gaze until he finally said, “You’re right. I guess we got too comfortable. I’m not sure if I would have noticed if you hadn’t said anything, but it’s true. Neither of us really tries anymore, do we?”

There was a beat as I waited for him to continue, not trusting my voice to reply.

“So, what do you want to do about it?”

I didn't know how to answer that. I sat on that couch, staring at my hands and searching for an answer. He didn't bother waiting until I found one.

“Are you saying you think we should get a divorce?”

I looked up at this new question, but Dave wouldn’t look at me, and I was terrified that he was hiding a hopeful expression. After all, if I wanted a divorce, he didn’t have to be the bad guy and ask for one himself.

But I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily. If he wanted to leave me, I was going to make him admit it and give me an explanation.

“Do you think we should get a divorce?” I asked.

“God, no!” He finally looked at me, and his eyes were filled with a terror I had never seen in him before.

“Look,” he said, turning his body to face me. He took my hands and held them between us. “You were right. Things have changed between us. And I’m not sure if it’s your fault or mine. Probably both. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I’m sorry I dropped the ball. I’m sorry I hurt you.

“But Lisa, I don’t think we’re done. I’m not ready to give up. I love you, and I don’t want to let you go without a fight. Please, say you’ll fight with me!”

And just like that, I wasn’t the only one crying anymore. In that moment, Dave’s tears meant that the thought of our marriage ending scared him as much as it did me, and that comforted me. It wasn’t over. There was still a chance.

“Yes, I’ll fight for us,” I said through my tears. “Of course, I’ll fight for us.”