Heal Me

3

As we loaded the last few boxes into the back of the moving truck, my heart felt heavy. Maddy cooed in excitedly in the carrier beside me, blissfully unaware of the emotional weight pressing down on me. I glanced back at the house I'd called home, the memories flooding my mind—laughing with Amy in the kitchen, quiet evenings curled up on the couch with Daniel. It felt surreal that I was leaving it all behind.
Amy stood a few feet away, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. As I turned to her, the floodgates opened, and we rushed into each other's arms, sobbing. "I can't believe you're leaving," she choked out, her voice breaking.
"I don't want to go," I admitted, my words muffled against her shoulder.
We held each other tightly, the world around us fading into a blur. I could feel the warmth of her body, the steady beat of her heart, and I clung to that comfort like it was a lifeline.
"Promise you'll call me every day," she whispered, pulling back just enough to look me in the eyes, her face streaked with tears.
"I promise," I said.
As we shared one last, lingering embrace, I caught sight of Daniel pulling Ethan aside, his expression a mix of concern and protectiveness. I couldn't hear their words, but I could see Daniel gesturing with intensity, his brow furrowed in frustration.
"She's my wife," Ethan said, a hard edge in his voice. "She's not your problem anymore."
Daniel stepped closer, his voice low and firm. "You shouldn't be dragging her away like this."
Ethan's jaw tightened. "I'm not dragging her anywhere. It was her decision."
"Is it?" Daniel shot back, eyes blazing. "Because it feels like you're forcing her into something she's not ready for. If you can't respect that, you need to rethink this whole situation."
I felt a pang in my chest as I watched them, torn between gratitude for Daniel's protectiveness and frustration at Ethan's coldness. Did he really think his authority was enough to smooth over my fears? As Ethan walked back toward me, he wore an expression that combined determination with a hard edge. "Are you ready?" he asked, his voice lacking any warmth, almost as if he was simply checking off a box on a list.
I forced a smile that felt brittle on my lips. "I guess so."
I climbed into the truck, and I glanced back one last time at Amy and Daniel, their faces were etched with concern and sadness. My heart ached for what I was leaving, and as we pulled away, I couldn't shake the feeling that the road ahead would be much more challenging than I'd ever anticipated. Ethan's words echoed in my mind, a reminder of the uncertainty that loomed over us—an uncertainty I was not sure I could bear.
Kentucky was nice, but it wasn't home. The quiet streets, the slow pace of life—it all felt so foreign to me. I thought I'd be able to settle in, make friends, and build a life here with Ethan, but the truth is, I can't shake the feeling that I'm just... not meant to be here. I wake up every morning to a quiet that feels overwhelming. I can hear the birds outside, the occasional car passing by, but there's this heavy stillness that fills the house. A silence that wraps around me like a cold, suffocating blanket. Maddy's cries break through it, and for a moment, I feel like I have a reason to move, a reason to get out of bed.
The house felt too big for just the two of us. The empty corners, the spaces that were supposed to be filled with our life together, all feel like reminders that I'm isolated. There are no friends to visit, no family to help out, and no community to connect with. It's just me and Maddy and the space that feels too wide to bridge.
I thought the small-town charm would grow on me, that I would learn to appreciate the slower pace, but all it's done so far is make me feel more alone. The people are kind enough, but their kindness is distant. I've tried to start conversations at the grocery store or wave back when someone smiles at me on the street, but it always feels like there's a barrier I can't cross, like I'm constantly on the outside, looking in.
I missed Amy and Daniel more than I care to admit. They're part of the life I left behind, and the physical distance between us is only deepening my sense of loneliness. I still talk to Amy on the phone, but it's not the same as being able to call her up and grab coffee on a whim or sit on the couch with her while we talk about everything and nothing. I know she's worried about me, and I hate that. I don't want to burden her with my sadness, but I can't help it. It's hard to hide how much I'm struggling.
Every time we talk, I try to sound upbeat, to make it seem like things are going well. I tell her that we're adjusting and that everything's fine, but the truth is, I feel like I'm drowning. I feel like I'm suffocating in this new life, in this new place, and there's no one here to help me stay afloat.
One morning, as I was rocking Maddy to sleep, Ethan came into the room. His boots thudded on the wooden floor, and his presence, though well-meaning, only added to the weight I was already carrying. He walked in, glancing at me without really looking, like it was a routine to check in on me but not something he actually cared about doing.
"You doing okay?" he asked, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. There was no warmth, no concern. Just a question that felt more like a box he had to tick off than genuine interest in my well-being.
"I'm fine," I replied, my voice lacking the energy it once had. "Just... tired."
He didn't respond right away, his eyes flicking to Maddy, who was now half-asleep in my arms. "I thought we were over this," he muttered, almost to himself. "You've had plenty of time to adjust."
I looked up at him, feeling the knot tighten in my stomach. The frustration in his voice wasn't new, but it still stung every time I heard it. "I am adjusting," I said quietly, though my voice trembled. "It's just harder than I thought."
The words hung between us, cold and uncomfortable. I watched him turn away slightly, like the conversation was already over for him. "You're fine. Maddy's fine. What's the problem?" His tone was distant now, almost annoyed.
"I'm not fine, Ethan," I said, my voice cracking. "And it's not just about being tired. I feel... lost. I don't know how to explain it."
His lips tightened into a thin line, and for a moment, he looked at me like I was the one causing all the problems. "You need to pull it together, Ellie."
The words hit like a slap, and I felt my chest tighten with the weight of everything I couldn't say. I wanted to shout, to tell him that this isn't what I signed up for. That I didn't want to feel like I was disappearing into a life that was slowly suffocating me, but all I could manage was a sharp exhale, my voice barely above a whisper. His eyes darkened, and I could see the frustration simmering beneath the surface. He was quiet for a moment, then turned and walked toward the door, not even bothering to glance back.
The silence after Ethan walked out was deafening. It was as if the house itself had breathed a sigh of relief, glad to have him gone. But I wasn't so lucky. I was still here, in the same space, alone with my thoughts, holding Maddy close. Her little fingers curled around mine, the warmth of her tiny hand a bittersweet reminder that at least someone needed me. Even that, comforting as it was, only highlighted how isolated I felt. I had this baby, this beautiful little girl who relied on me, but even she couldn't fill the void of loneliness that stretched between me and Ethan.
The next day was a repeat of the one before. Maddy was up early, and the demands of motherhood consumed me, but as the hours passed, I found myself sinking further into the emptiness. Ethan had been distant, if not downright cold. I barely saw him except for when he came in to grab a quick meal or play with Maddy. During lunch, he sat across from me at the kitchen table, the silence stretching between us like a chasm.
I was trying to eat, but the food tasted like nothing. "Do you need anything?" I asked, though I wasn't sure why. It felt like asking was pointless, like he had already checked out.
Ethan glanced up briefly from his phone. "I'm good."
I watched him eat in silence, the heaviness in the air growing thicker with every passing second. He wasn't angry, but the apathy in his voice was more painful than anything. I wanted to scream, to throw my plate across the room, but instead, I sat there quietly, eating my food like a stranger in my own house.
"Do you want to watch a movie later?" I asked, hoping for some kind of response that resembled care or concern.
He set his fork down and sighed. "Yeah, maybe."
Maybe. The word hung in the air, a useless promise. I knew he didn't want to talk. He wasn't interested in my feelings, in how hard this transition had been for me. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the gap between us had widened to a point where we might never bridge it. I glanced down at my food, pushing the salad around on my plate. I could feel tears welling up behind my eyes, but I swallowed them down. There was no point in crying anymore. Not when no one seemed to notice. Not when no one seemed to care.