The Woman He Comes Home To

Most days, I measure myself against women who seem to breathe through it — the ones with clean counters, warm dinners, soft voices that never crack. Meanwhile, I’m burning inside the same four walls, trying to look composed with a baby on my hip and a smile that feels rehearsed. I love my husband. God, I love him. But he sees the worst of me — the sharp words, the slammed drawers, the silence that begs to be understood without me saying a thing. He gets what’s left after the world and the baby and my guilt have eaten their share. And I hate that. I hate that my love sometimes sounds like exhaustion, that my warmth comes in pieces, that my laughter feels borrowed. I tell myself it’s just a season — that I’ll find myself again when things settle, when we have our own space, when I sleep through the night, when I stop feeling like I’m failing at something I was made to do. But deep down, I think I just miss myself. The one who used to feel full. The one who didn’t need to smile to prove she was okay.