The baby is wailing, and I’m amidst dinner preparations. The dog is barking at a shadow or perhaps a butterfly flitting somewhere far away. The trash is overflowing, and I’ve requested you empty it four times already. A stray eggshell slips from my hands, and suddenly, it feels like a contest between three contenders. We all rush to grab it. I emerge victorious, egg white dripping down my arm, while the dog resumes his endless chatter and our daughter begins a new, piercing cry.
Frustration boils inside me. I rhetorically ask whose fault it is that I’m drowning in this domestic chaos. You simply shrug from the couch, your superpower being your ability to ignore everything outside of “sports commentary.” I ask again, louder this time, fueled by anger and my knack for being insufferable when upset. I become condescending, knowing it gets to you, and we both know how to hit each other where it hurts. You remain silent, which annoys me even more because nothing is worse than feeling unheard.
I clang pots and pans together, slam cabinet doors, and let out dramatic sighs and groans that would surprise any cooking show host. Eventually, you rise from the couch, take out the trash, and before you slam the door, you deliver your verdict: it’s my fault because I chose to marry you.
I was so furious that I found myself crying. I scrubbed dishes with tears streaming down my cheeks, letting anger simmer inside me throughout the night. I recalled every infuriating thing you’ve done and had imaginary arguments in my head. I cursed you and played the guilt card, pulling at your vulnerabilities. Yet as the water in the sink cooled, so did my rage. I realized that staying within my own thoughts often leads to clarity. A quick temper and sharp tongue don’t win friends, and expressing every thought while angry isn’t a gift.
In the shower, I reflected on you—how stressed you must be, how sadness sometimes creeps in and paralyzes you. I pondered my own tendency to stretch myself too thin, understanding that the expectations I place upon myself can be burdensome. I remembered last week when you invited me to sit with you, and I brushed it off, claiming I had no time when, in reality, time is all we have.
I thought about the portrayal of marriage in movies and social media, often filtered through perfect lighting. Then I remembered the messy reality of our life tonight, with egg on my arm and face. You were right; for better or worse, I chose you. I embraced everything about you: the snoring, the indecision, the forgetfulness, the encouragement to try spicy foods, and the warmth that makes me feel at home.
Today feels brighter. Mornings have that effect. I watch our daughter run to you, a mini version of yourself. You effortlessly scoop her up with one hand, and as you wrap your arm around my waist, we gaze into the distance at another moving truck—another step into our future. I know it will be challenging and daunting, but deep down, I wouldn’t want to stand beside anyone else. I lean into you, and my gratitude swells, quietly thanking the universe that I married you.