Page 17 of The Gathered Fragments of Us
I set the phone aside and walked to the bathroom, frustration building in my chest. When had communicating with my own husband become so complicated? When had I started overthinking every word?
It had been gradual, so gradual I hadn't noticed it happening. Somewhere along the way, his responses to my attempts at connection had become shorter. More distracted. Until eventually, I'd stopped trying as hard.
I could see it now, looking back. The way I'd started editing myself. Keeping conversations surface-level because going deeper meant risking his distracted "mm-hmm" while he scrolled through emails.
The way I'd stopped sharing the little things—funny stories from work, random thoughts, dreams about our future—because he'd stopped really listening.
And then I'd gotten angry about his lack of attention, but instead of saying "I need you to put your phone down and actually hear me," I'd gotten passive-aggressive. Made comments about how he was always working. Rolled my eyes when he missed details I'd already told him. Let silence fill the spaces where conversation used to be.
God, when was the last time we'd had a real conversation? Not about schedules or logistics or whose turn it was to pick up groceries, but an actual talk about thoughts and feelings and dreams?
I couldn't remember. And that was as much my fault as his.
I'd stopped fighting for us somewhere along the way. Stopped demanding better. I'd gotten comfortable with crumbs because asking for the whole meal felt like too much work, too much vulnerability, too much risk of being disappointed again.
But he'd stopped offering the whole meal too. We'd both just... settled. Into politeness. Into parallel lives that occasionally intersected at dinner or in bed.
Standing in the bathroom, looking at my reflection, I tried to pinpoint when it started. Maybe it was after the third failed IVF cycle, when we were both so raw and grieving that it was easier to retreat into our separate corners than to hold each other through the pain.
Maybe it was when his company started struggling and he disappeared into eighteen-hour days. Maybe it was when I got promoted and started staying late to prove myself.
Or maybe it was all of those things, layered on top of each other until we forgot how to reach across the distance we'd created.
I missed us. Not just the version of us from that July 4th—though God, I missed that intensity, that certainty that we were building something beautiful together.
I missed the way he used to look at me like I was the most interesting person in the room. The way he'd ask follow-up questions about things I'd mentioned in passing. The way he'd remember details about my day and check in about things that were worrying me.
I missed feeling like his favorite person.
But I also missed actually being his favorite person. Missed the way I used to light up when he walked into a room. Missed looking forward to telling him about fun little things instead of dreading another distracted conversation. Missed feeling excited about our plans together instead of resigned to them being canceled or postponed.
When had I stopped bringing him coffee in the morning? When had I stopped wearing the perfume he loved? When had I stopped kissing his cheek as I walked by him?
I'd been so focused on feeling invisible to him that I hadn't noticed how invisible I'd become to myself. How I'd shrunk down to fit into the smaller and smaller spaces that existed in between the moments.
My eyes dropped to my hands, and I realized I was holding something—white and folded. It was Caden’s letter from last night. When had I picked it back up?
I opened it again and reread the line that kept echoing in my head: I’m going to show you that you are—and always have been—the love of my life.
I could almost taste the memory of a time when I really felt that.
Boston, July 4, 2018:
We’d arrived early—Caden insisted. Blankets, wine, snacks, Bluetooth speaker for the wait. He always overprepared, and I didn’t mind it. It let me relax and go with the flow because I knew he had the details covered.
It was hot. Not unbearable, but enough that I tied my hair up and peeled off my sandals the moment we laid our blanket down near the Esplanade. It was early—as was necessary on the Fourth in Boston. The crowd hadn’t fully settled yet, but he sat close, one of his legs stretched out behind me like a safety rail.
"You good?" he asked, offering me a chilled water bottle he’d packed in a tiny cooler like a dad at his kid’s softball game.
I nodded, smiling as I took it. "You’re very proud of this setup."
"Damn straight. Blanket real estate is no laughing matter."
I laughed, then leaned into his side, resting my chin on his shoulder for a moment. He smelled like sunblock and soap and just a little like the white wine sweating in plastic cups between us.
"You used to come here a lot as a kid?"
He shook his head. "Nah. My parents weren’t into the crowds. Then later, with Jessica—she preferred house parties. Watching the fireworks on TV instead of being here in person. This is one of my firsts."
