The Dinner

The kitchen filled with the smell of cooking as the meatballs browned. I was very tired and not in the mood to cook. My feet and back hurt. The meatballs burnt. I didn't care.

Would it bother him? Would he notice? Maybe he'd grumble about the burnt edges, but I wondered what would upset him more tonight: the overcooked meatballs or what was going on beneath the surface? I turned down the heat, trying to save the dish, though I knew it was too late.

I sat down for what felt like the first time all day and took a moment to think about it. After 20 years, I've ended up with a small apartment, two troubled teenagers, and a 9-to-5 job. And a husband who doesn't seem to notice me much. I’m trying to figure out when we stopped seeing each other – when he stopped noticing me, and when I stopped trying to be seen. It’s interesting how life became so pale and unremarkable. So am I – stuck in a rut, spinning my wheels but going nowhere.

I was happy to have kids with their grandparents tonight. I just didn't have the energy to deal with them on top of everything else. Lately, every conversation ends up as a fight, and I'm too tired to go through that today. Their absence gave me a little space to think, but even with the quiet, I couldn't escape the weight of everything on my mind.

I heard him come in. As usual, I heard the jingle of keys on the table, followed by the sound of shoes being kicked off. Next, he'd grumble about his colleagues, take off his coat, and head to the washroom to wash his hands. I could almost guess what he'd do next, right down to the second. I served the burnt meatballs with some porridge.

- How did your day at work go?

- Everything's fine.

It sounds to me like a door being quietly closed in my face. He sat down without looking at me and started eating right away. I sat opposite him. His fork moved in slow, deliberate motions, starting at the edges of the plate and making his way in, as if the meal had to be conquered one bite at a time. It was a habit he'd had since childhood, a reminder of how his mother had taught him to avoid burning himself on hot food. And here he was, after all this time, still following her instructions without even realising it. He's a bit of a mama's boy.

Has my mother-in-law ever approved of me? She always manages to slip in a backhanded compliment or a reminder of how "things were done better in her day". She still has a tight grip on her son, even after all these years. Sometimes I wonder if my husband married me because he needed another woman to take care of him.

I looked at my hands, twisting the tablecloth between them. It wasn’t always like this. We used to be happy. We used to have long chats about everything – our plans, concerns, what we wanted from life. There was a time when these words felt like home.

I let out a little sigh and looked at my husband. He looked older and more tired, just like me. Our youth was gone, replaced by this… whatever this was.

He used to be very open with me. I was always the first to know about everything. Back then, it felt like there was so much hope for our relationship, like we could overcome anything together. But what about now? Now, it’s just two strangers sitting at the same table, sharing the same space but nothing else. Now, the silence between us feels louder than any words ever could.

Was this what was supposed to happen? Is this just what happens to couples when the initial spark fades, and the daily grind takes over? Maybe I'm the one who's confused here. What if I’m ruining something that’s perfectly normal? What if this is just how long marriages really are, and I’m too blind to see it? The more I thought about it, the more tired I felt, like I was going in circles in my mind.

Maybe it’s me that makes this harder than it needs to be. My mom says I'm my own worst enemy. "You always overthink," she said. Maybe she was right. Or perhaps I became too skilled at suffering, too comfortable in the role of the victim. Perhaps that's why I held on to it. Perhaps that’s why I remained silent during all those evenings. Night after night, sitting across from him, saying nothing, letting the routine fill the space where words should’ve been.

To be honest, I don’t even know how to do it differently. My therapist once asked me to imagine a different life, but I just can't picture myself doing that. I try, but it's like looking into a black hole. What would my life be like without this? What would I do? Who would I even be? Just darkness.

I remembered what a blogger I follow said last week. " Just take a moment and ask yourself: What are you really afraid of? Why are you choosing to suffer?” I didn’t have an answer then, and I still don’t. All I know is, I'm feeling a bit scared. I'm suffocating, like the weight of everything is pressing down on me.

And still, I’m here. Unable to speak. Paralyzed by anxiety.

He chewed slowly, unaware of the storm swirling inside me. The meatballs, the ones he always loved, sat untouched on the side of his plate, waiting for him to make his way to them. How many more times would we sit like this? How many more times would I gather my courage, only to find myself tongue-tied, leaving things unspoken?

He looked up suddenly, breaking the spell. His eyes met mine, and for a second, I thought he knew. He didn’t.

- The meatballs were a little burnt.

I laughed. The words slipped out before I could stop them.

- We’re all burnt.