Page 107 of The Game Plan
I tuck my lip between my teeth, weighing my options before clicking the link. I don’t even know why I’m looking at houses. I love Grant, I truly do. But a part of me still feels like Lennon and I are a burden. He’s never shown it, but he’s young, with a fresh career. He should be out with friends, not doing late-night feedings. His future is bright, and I feel like we’re putting a damper on it.
Not to mention, I’m one meltdown away from everything unraveling and ruining all that we’ve built in the last three months. Grant deserves happiness, not a wife who cries in the shower until the water runs cold. Or snaps at him without warning.
I scroll down the page, stopping at a small two-bedroom cottage in a suburb not far from here. The yard is a nice size, big enough for the small patio and eventually a little swing set for Lennon. The kitchen looks to have been remodeled in the last ten years, and the flooring is original hardwood. It could use a fresh scrub, but I’m no stranger to elbow grease. The house isnothing elaborate, but I don’t need anything fancy. I grew up in a double-wide until I moved into my aunt’s one-thousand-square-foot house with three bedrooms and one bathroom. I’ve never known luxury, aside from the colonial sorority house.
Grant Campbell is the best man I know. He deserves to live a life not strapped down by bottles and nap schedules. He deserves the chance to land his dream coaching job, even if that takes him across the country. But instead, I appeared at his graduation, pregnant with someone else’s child, and he chose to be a part of my story.
But what about his story?
Is this how my mom felt when my dad left? Did his reckless decisions lead her to a life where she constantly resented the man who made her a mother before she was ready? Will Grant resent me someday when he looks back and wishes he had had the chance to live his life after graduation before being saddled with unplanned responsibilities?
I don’t think I could live with myself knowing I ruined his life when I ruined my birth dad’s and mom’s lives. I’ve been a burden in everyone’s story. I don’t want my daughter to grow up feeling the weight I carried throughout my entire life.
If I give him space, things will return to how they were supposed to be. He could coach. I’d cheer him on from a distance. He’d be free of my mess.
And I could learn how to be a mom without suffocating him with my fear and insecurities.
Lennon stirs, and I snap back to my reality. I hop up from the couch with my plate of barely eaten spaghetti and laptop. Setting my laptop on the counter, I scrape my plate and put it in the dishwasher. With a bottle for Lennon, I go back to my responsibilities with my head still stuck in an invisible fog.
The apartment is dark and quiet when I finally drag myself home. After Sav’s meltdown and verbal lashing, I decided to give her some space, even though I didn’t want to. I know she needs help, but how do you convince your wife to see a therapist? I miss the spark in her eyes, but it’s hidden by years of childhood trauma that’s now competing with the fear of failing Lennon.
I blame her mom. The woman who failed Savannah, who’s strung her with years of torment. She’s terrified of something happening to her daughter because of the years of neglect she suffered.
Dropping my coaching bag on a stool, I look around the apartment. A few dirty bottles are resting next to the sink. A pile of mail I need to go through sits on another counter. Blankets, toys, and hopefully clean laundry are tossed haphazardly around the living room. Before I decide to tidy up the space, I check on my girls.
As quietly as possible, I twist the knob on Lennon’s door and press it open with my shoulder, careful not to let the kitchenlight pour in. Her sound machine is playing a lullaby, and her body is wrapped in a swaddle with her pajama-clad arms exposed. She’s grown so much in a month. I take a second to breathe in her nursery scent and watch her chest rise and fall.
I could stay and watch her sleep all night, but I need to find my wife. I’m terrified of her mood swings. Afraid she’ll slip through my fingers, and I’ll never get her back.
Our bedroom door is cracked, lights flashing from the TV. She’s fallen asleep to her favorite show. I don’t understand how a show about criminals’ behaviors is comforting, but it is for her. And I think she has a crush on Derek Morgan. Man enough to admit, he is a stud.
Blankets cocoon around her, her face relaxed. There’s not a worry line anywhere. Carefully, I move a stray piece of hair and brush my lips across her forehead. Then I get the hell out of there before I wake her. She needs rest.
Back in the kitchen, I turn on the faucet, fill the sink with soapy water, and spend the next few minutes washing bottles, her reusable water bottle, and leftover mugs from this morning. Bottles resting on the tree to dry, I grab a rag and wipe down the counters. Nothing’s visibly dirty, but it’s a small OCD habit. I can’t go to bed with a messy counter or living room. If I wake up to a mess, it paralyzes me—should I clean, or just move on with my day?
As I move around the island, I reach out to move her laptop. My thumb accidentally grazes the trackpad, and the screen lights up. I don’t mean to snoop, but a picture of a house stops me. It’s a house listing for a two-bedroom home on the opposite side of town.
My stomach plummets with the urge to puke.
I notice more tabs are open, and I click on one. Instead of a house staring back at me, it’s an ad for a one-bedroom apartment ready to lease.
Another tab has information on baby blues and postpartum rage.
This is the first glimpse at the inner workings of my wife I’ve had in weeks. Is she leaving me? Is my future blowing up in my face?
Fuck!
I close the lid as if it’ll explode and grip the counter. My chest heaves as I try to calm myself down. If I don’t, I’m going to storm into the bedroom and demand she tell me the truth. If she’s going to leave me, she’s going to have to try her damndest. I’m not letting her go. She’s finally mine, and I’ll stop at nothing to keep her.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself. The truth is, I’ll give her whatever she wants. I’ll hate it, but if she wants a divorce and my rights removed as Lennon’s father, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything to make her happy. Anything to give her spark back. I’ll hate myself, but I promised I’d protect her, and if that means letting her go, then I will.
I reach into my pocket and dig out my phone. I need to talk to someone before I’m the one exploding. Pulling open my messages, I find an unread message from my mom.
Mom: Hi, sweetie. I’m not sure how to approach this, but I’m worried about Savannah. Has she been to the doctor’s for her postpartum appointment? I know it’s typically around six weeks, but her behavior is worrying me. She might want to try to get in sooner. I love you both.
I leave her on read because I have no clue how to respond to her message.I’m scared, too, Mom. She seems to be spiraling out of control. Oh, and she’s planning on leaving me and taking my daughter with her.
Instead of the asshole response, I find Q’s name.
