The Way We Feel

Chapter 36

"You really didn't have to do this," Michelle said, her eyes locking on the plate I set before her on the kitchen island.

"It's nothing," I said, turning back to the stove, where a hot pan sat ready to fry up more eggs, where the rest of the sausages stayed warm in another pan, and a heap of bacon sat on a plate coated with paper towels to pick up some of the excess grease. It wasn't the full English I would've liked to have made—Michelle didn't have beans or mushrooms—but I'd grilled up some tomato and fried potatoes and plated it all with some toast and butter on the side.

An Americanized English breakfast of sorts.

I took a sip of my coffee and made sure all the burners were off, my eyes shooting to Lila in her high chair as Michelle leaned towards her with another spoonful of baby food. She was dressed and ready for work, and I could already see Lila's breakfast getting all over her.

"Here, I've got it," I said, hurrying over to my daughter and pulling up a seat in front of her as Michelle handed me the small spoon.

"Thanks." Michelle was quiet as she dug into her meal, and I could feel exhaustion begin to settle over me as I sat, as I stuck the spoon into Lila's wet, pink mouth.

I hadn't slept much last night. After Mads had left me in the living room, I wasn't even sure how long I stayed down here before heading up, but when I got to our room—her childhood bedroom—she was already asleep.

Or pretending to be. I wasn't sure I wanted to find out the truth.

So, I'd slid beneath the sheets beside her and stared up at the ceiling for a little while, then I turned my back to her and stared at the shaded window, and then, finally, I turned onto my other side and stared at her back, her long brown hair, spilled over the pillow. She was wearing one of my old t-shirts, as she usually did. And maybe I shouldn't have taken that to mean anything, but it was comforting to know that she didn't hate me enough to forgo her usual bedtime attire just because it had once belonged to me.

Unless she was just too tired to look for something else.

I tossed and turned, and the minutes dragged, but my mind never turned off. Wondering if maybe things weren't as bad as I thought. And when Mads turned over in the middle of the night, sighing contentedly as her beautiful face turned to me, I thought for sure we would get through this.

Because I would do whatever it took to get us through this.

But then, what felt like the next second, I was sure she would never forgive me. Because the way she'd left me downstairs, the exhausted way she'd said, "I'm too tired right now", the way she hadn't even turned back before heading up the stairs, made me wonder if she'd even want to get past this.

Our relationship, our love, was perfect in so many ways. But the imperfections—our faults—they seemed to always catch us between her insecurities and my poor choices. We fed into each other that way, and I'd fed right into her insecurities once more with what I'd done—the choice I'd made.

And I wouldn't blame her if she never forgave me for it.

These were the thoughts that wouldn't leave me alone, and when the sky lightened beyond the shaded window, glowing around the blinds, I got up—couldn't be alone in the room with those thoughts any longer. Even with Mads beside me. Not without doing something.

Not without moving.

It was a quarter to seven when I walked out into the hallway, and all was quiet in the house, so I checked Lila before coming downstairs, and to my surprise, she was awake in her crib. Awake and quiet.