Page 46 of Shattered Dreams
She's killing me slowly, and she knows it.
"Daddy, look!" Poppy holds up her drawing—a house with three stick figures. "It's you, me, and Mommy!"
I glance at Ava, who's braiding Poppy's hair with careful precision. She doesn't look up or acknowledge I exist. Her fingers work through the strands like she's done a thousand times before, and I remember how those same fingers felt in my hair just days ago.
"That's beautiful, baby." I sit on the couch beside them, close enough to smell Ava's shampoo. She shifts slightly, creating distance without making it obvious to Poppy.
"Mommy, can we go to the park today?"
"Of course, we can." Ava's voice is warm honey when she talks to our daughter. Whenever she looks at me, it turns to ice. "Go get your shoes, honey."
Poppy bounces off toward the hallway, leaving us alone.
I turn to Ava, desperate for any acknowledgement.
"Ava—"
"Poppy, do you have your jacket?" she calls out, standing and walking away from me like I'm invisible.
This is my punishment. No shouting or crying, not even anger. Just nothing. Complete and utter indifference, like I'm a stranger who happens to live in her house.
I follow them to the park like a lost dog. Ava pushes Poppy on the swings, laughing at something our daughter says. The sound cuts through me because I remember when she used to laugh like that with me. Now she looks through me like I'm a ghost.
"Higher, Mommy!"
"Hold on tight then." Ava gives the swing another push, her face bright with genuine joy. She's stunning when she's happy, and the fact that her happiness has nothing to do with me anymore makes my chest ache.
I try to join in, catching Poppy when she jumps off the swing.
"Did you see me fly, Daddy?"
"I did. You went so high." I grin at her, then look at Ava. "Remember when we brought her here for the first time? She was so scared of the baby swings."
Ava's expression doesn't change. She checks her watch instead. "We should head back. I need to make lunch."
Another dismissal. Another reminder that I mean nothing to her.
Back home, she moves around the kitchen like I'm not there. When I try to help, she sidesteps me. When I ask what she's making, she doesn't answer. When our hands accidentally brush reaching for the same glass, she yanks back like my touch burns.
The worst part?
She's stillher—the woman I fell in love with, still the most incredible mother to our daughter.Shehasn't changed—I'm just no longer part of her world.
"I'm going to have a bath," she announces after putting Poppy down for her nap.
"Ava, we need to talk?—"
"I don't think we do." She heads upstairs without looking back.
I hear the water running, hear her moving around in our—her bathroom. I know exactly what she looks like stepping into that tub, know how she sinks down with a soft sigh, know how her hair looks pinned up with those little tendrils escaping around her neck.
A week ago, I had her. A week ago, she was mine, even if it was just for those desperate moments in the kitchen. Now I can't even get her to acknowledge my existence.
I'm losing my mind.
The bath water stops running. I imagine her sliding down into the warmth, eyes closed, finally relaxed.
Does she think about me at all? Does she remember how we used to take baths together, how I'd wash her hair while she leaned back against my chest?
