Breathe

Places We Call Home-1

A man? What is a man, really? Is it defined by big arms, dominance, and unyielding strength? These questions have been swirling through my mind in these past few days. I thought I was ready for this, for life's challenges, but now I find myself perched on a small rock in the virtually nonexistent backyard of my house, tears streaming down my face like a helpless toddler.

I didn't anticipate life would bring me to this point, certainly not a feeling of hopelessness within my own marriage. The word "marriage" now carries far more weight than it did just two weeks ago when I proudly introduced my wife to my grandmother. Or that first day when we lazily lounged together, stomachs full, without a care in the world.

Once the food is consumed, I return to my grueling routine of manual labor; of carrying bricks, breathing in the acrid smoke, and appearing more like a ginger nut than a man. I envisioned my hands, once rough and calloused, holding pens and writing in foreign languages. But that dream eluded me. My only heritage, it seems, was herding cows, fending off predators, and caring for my grandmother.

Men like me have one singular mission in life: survival. Surviving life's challenges, surviving within the confines of our homes, and surviving in the world at large. I've grown accustomed to waking up with nothing to eat in the afternoon, knowing that as long as I have these arms, I won't starve indefinitely. But the knowledge that someone is waiting for me to provide food, especially when she's pregnant, is nerve-wracking.

Acts of affection that are met with rejection, I can bear, but the insults, oh Lord, they cut deep. I may be a sinner, but to be regarded with such low dignity by someone I thought I was equal to is a wound that festers inside me. My wife's rejection was a dagger to my pride. She would often sit at the rickety wooden table, her brows furrowed in disapproval as she examined the meal I'd prepared. The clatter of her spoon against the plate seemed louder than thunder, each sound driving home the fact that my efforts had fallen short.

The pain intensifies when I see the hatred in her eyes. Had I seen it earlier, perhaps it wouldn't have come to this point. Or maybe, I was blinded by the so-called love that once resided in my heart. Maybe it was my naivety that led them to think she was interested in me. I remembered our first conversation vividly. She had approached me as I was tending to the fire, her eyes filled with a curious spark. Her voice was gentle, like a breeze rustling through the leaves. I blushed, and my hands had trembled as I offered her a smile. It was a smile of awkwardness, of a boy who rarely ventured beyond the safety of his chores and his grandmother's side. Little did I know that that initial connection would lead to the tangled web of deceit we now find ourselves in.

I long to lay my head on my grandmother's chest and weep, but such vulnerability is not acceptable. At nineteen years old, I must own my actions and bear the consequences. If I were to seek advice from my friends at the tavern, they would likely tell me to send her away, to disown her. But I can't bear the thought of that, even though I know the child is not mine. It goes against everything I was raised to believe - that we are here to protect and provide, lead.

I would often steal moments of quiet contemplation in our small, dimly lit room. My calloused fingers would trace patterns in the dust on the floor, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts and unspoken words. I yearned to confide in my grandmother, to share the burdens that threatened to consume me, but the stoic faces of the men in the village haunted me. I couldn't bear the thought of exposing my vulnerabilities, of letting tears flow freely. So, instead, I locked my emotions away, just as I had been taught.