“It’s okay that you forgot.”
It’s not like this year’s been anything worth remembering. Forgotten birthdays. Forgotten dates. Nights spent alone while he worked late in the office. And last week at counseling, he admitted that he never wanted kids and likely never will.
It would’ve been nice to know that before getting married.
It would’ve been nice to know that before I was seven months pregnant.
“If you wanna go out to eat or something, we can. But I don’t have much money.”
Another one of our martial problems—finances. His business ventures will take off soon. One of them. But right now, we spend more money than we have, and it’s taxing, draining.
“So that means I have to pay?” Again.
He shrugs. “If you want.”
I haven’t gotten what I wanted for a long time. Today, of all days, I just want to be happy. I want us to be happy. I want us to remember why we took those vows, that we loved each other once. I pray that one day I won’t worry about what additional troubles this baby will bring, like the fact that my job doesn’t currently offer paid maternity leave. I’d have to work until this baby drops just to ensure we’ll have food on the table in the days after I’m forced to leave.
“So what are we doing?” he presses.
“I guess I’ll order a pizza,” I say with a sigh as my stomach growls louder.
“For both of us?” he asks, staring at the source of my current hunger pains. I’d be foolish to call the look endearing, but a hormonal wife can only hope, right?
“I guess I’ll order two.” If I’m lucky, he’s skinny enough that he’ll probably eat a slice and a half with water before going back to work, leaving the rest for me to find some semblance of happiness feeding my face and fattening myself up until I pop.
Today we’re celebrating five years of blogging! Let’s make this anniversary happier than the one in today’s story. 😉