As I stand in the kitchen, the baby is wailing, and I’m attempting to prepare dinner. Our dog is barking at what seems to be nothing—perhaps a fleeting shadow or the flutter of a butterfly somewhere far away. The trash can is overflowing, and I’ve asked you to take it out multiple times. I accidentally drop an eggshell onto the floor, triggering a chaotic competition among us. We all lunge for it, and I emerge victorious, egg white dripping down my arm, while the dog resumes his incessant barking and our child escalates her cries.
Frustration bubbles within me. I question whose fault this chaotic scene is, but you merely shrug from the couch, seemingly immune to my distress. Your ability to tune out everything except for “sports commentary” is remarkable. I raise my voice in anger, knowing that in our marriage, we have mastered the art of provoking each other. You continue to ignore me, deepening my irritation, as nothing frustrates me more than feeling unheard.
As I bang pots and pans together, I make my displeasure known through loud sighs and exaggerated movements. Eventually, you rise from the couch and reluctantly take out the trash. Before you leave, you respond to my earlier question, attributing the blame to me for “choosing” to marry you.
Overwhelmed with anger, I find myself crying while washing the dishes, letting the bitterness fester inside me throughout the night. I replay every grievance in my mind, constructing arguments against you without your presence. I curse you silently, but as the warm water cools in the sink, so does my anger. I realize that a short temper and a sharp tongue only lead to isolation, and articulating every anger-fueled thought isn’t a gift, but a burden.
In the shower, I reflect on your stress and how sadness sometimes creeps up on you, immobilizing you. I consider my own tendency to stretch myself too thin, realizing that the expectations I feel are often self-imposed. Last week, when you invited me to sit beside you, I declined, telling myself there wasn’t enough time, even though time is truly all we have.
I think about the portrayal of marriage in films, social media, and the idealized moments we see. I remember our reality that night, with egg not only on my arm but also smeared on my face. You were right: for better or worse, I chose to marry you. I embraced every facet of you—your snoring, your indecisiveness, your forgetfulness about the trash, and even your tendency to introduce me to new flavors that challenge my palate. I recall the day you walked me to class in tenth grade, confidently claiming we would marry by eleventh, and how you have that exceptional ability to calm my racing thoughts. You sing and dance to bring a smile to my face and have always made me feel at home, no matter where life takes us. I chose you.
Today feels different; mornings often do. I watch as our daughter rushes to you, a reflection of you in her every gesture. You effortlessly scoop her up, and I can’t help but admire the bond you share. Your arm wraps around my waist, pulling me closer as we gaze at another moving truck—symbolic of our ever-evolving future. I know it will be challenging and at times frightening, but deep down, I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side. I lean into you, and my gratitude returns, filling my heart as I quietly thank the universe for bringing you into my life.