I’ve woken up alone nearly every morning this trip. I reach for him in my sleep, in the dark cold, and jolt awake. That he’s not there.
I love him for being the kind of father who will go quietly to his child’s bed for a late night nightmare, who will sleep cramped in the small bed with a tossing and turning toddler, just in case the child needs comfort later…
I ask him, even though I know a whine has crept into my voice and he hates when I whine, if he misses me at night. No, he says, I’m just asleep.
Deep down, I am afraid that he goes to our sons bed because he is the one seeking comfort, not the baby. I’m afraid that he sleeps with our child in his arms to ease his mind that he has lost all desire to sleep with me in his arms. That he’s lost all desire for me. I’m afraid that he uses his love for our son as a shield to protect us all from the truth: that he doesn’t love me anymore.
I wake up alone, and his absence is a physical pain.
