Without Words

As the rays of morning sun dance through the window, I head to the kitchen where I put on a pot of coffee for my husband. I prepare my daughter's lunch and set today's newspaper on the table.

No words are exchanged as Steve moseys in, taking the seat adjacent his coffee mug, and reads the the paper.

Neither of us budge as Bella hurries passed, with five minutes to catch the bus. She peeps into her lunchbox and shoots me a sideways glare. "I'll eat at school," she says.

Out the front door she goes, leaving her lunchbox behind.

Steve stands and takes one last sip from his mug. "Wait." I stop him before he goes. "Don't forget to take the trash to the street."

He nods and leaves me alone in the kitchen.

I sigh and linger here for a moment, mentally preparing to fulfill my daily string of chores.

Bella's bed isn't made, yesterday's outfit is strung on the floor beside it. Steve forgot to put his shoes away again and his socks didn't quite make it into the hamper.

Ugh. This isn't what I signed up for, I think as I carry a boatload of dirty clothes to the laundry room.

I sweep, then I mop, and take a step back. It's one of those days where, no matter what I accomplish, nothing seems complete.

The washer buzzes—my cue to switch the load to the dryer and start another.

I need some fresh air.

The front door's open and I step out, taking in the warmth of the sky and melodic chirp of the birds. The embrace doesn't last long. My head spins unconsciously to the side of the house, where the trash can sits, still, on the verge of overflowing.

I immediately notice the emptiness of the neighbors' cans, and know that it's too late.

Steve returns home and meets my scowl. His eyes are wide, a confused expression plays on his face.

"What'd I do now?" he asks.

"It's what you didn't do."

"The trash?" he questions. "I knew I was forgetting something."

"You've gotten real good at forgetting," I say.

He shakes his head and slides passed me.

He always does this. He always walks away.

I want to be able to talk to him, tell him that I'm tired and I'm stressed. That I wish things were different. But there's a good possibility he wouldn't understand. So I storm to the kitchen, stomping to make sure he knows that I'm not happy.

***

I'm not happy. She's always nagging.

Doesn't she realize I've had a long day at work, where I deal with grueling clients and an egocentric boss who treats his employees like personal servants?

I've still got portfolios to manage and online transactions to complete. Along with taking in the added stress of forgetting to do what she asked me to do.

My feet ache as I make my way upstairs to change my clothes. It's hot in the office, and sweat has made it's way to each fiber in this suit jacket.

I wish I would've chosen a different career, I think as I put on fresh pajamas and toss my socks mindlessly toward the hamper.

The food smells good.

I think she's cooking spaghetti, but I don't dare walk back down the stairs. Not until she calls up that dinner is done.

Tonight will undoubtedly be one of those nights. One where I'll be put on the couch to sleep, like many nights before.

"Dinner!" Kelly yells. "Come and get it."

She sits in the seat furthest away from me. That's how I know for sure we're in the middle of a fight. I try to avoid eye contact as her fuming stare burns bright.

I won't forget about the trash next time.

Kelly stands first and walks her plate to the sink, she barely ate a thing.

"You're not going to eat?" I ask as I join her.

"I did," she lies.

"If you say so," I mutter. "Thanks for dinner."

She nods but offers nothing else. 

After slipping my empty plate into the sink, I watch her for a moment. She moves effortlessly around the kitchen, scraping leftovers into Tupperware and placing them into the fridge.

She doesn't know I'm still standing here. I wonder if it'd be different if she did.

Probably not.

Like many times before, I return to our room and grab my pillow from our bed. I take a blanket from the linen closet and ready myself for a night on the couch.

"Really, Steve?" she snaps, meeting me in the hallway. "We're not going to talk about this?"

I wheel and face her. "I'm sorry for forgetting about the trash."

"But how could you forget it?"

"I've got a lot going on and—

She laughs. "You've got a lot going on? I'm the one that's constantly moving. I do all the cleaning and cooking; making your coffee, doing your laundry. You'd think taking trash to the road wouldn't be so hard to do."

At this point, I'm sure nothing I say will help the situation. I want to be able to talk to her, tell her that I'm tired and I'm stressed. That I wish things were different. But there's a good possibility she wouldn't understand.

Besides, if this time is like any other, talking will lead to screaming. And screaming leads us no where good. So I tell her I don't want to fight and I turn and walk away.

***

I don't want them to fight anymore.

Witnessing their downfall is like having a gloomy cloud over my head. One that consistently produces rain, which falls all around me—little sprinkles of depression.

I still have homework to do and a calculus test to study for. But it's hard to accomplish anything when I'm worried about my parents.

They've been fighting a lot more lately, over chores and bills, dirty clothes and the lack of time spent together.

Mom's attitude toward us has changed, as if she doesn't want to be here anymore. Maybe she'd be happier if she weren't. And Dad's nights on the couch are becoming less of a rare occurrence and more of a normalcy—as if he prefers to be there. Almost like I prefer to be here, in my room. Out of the presence of the two of them. Away from lingering tension and unresolved issues.

When it comes to Mom and Dad, I don't know what lies ahead. But one thing I know for sure is no one in this family knows how to effectively communicate. It could be that we've just lost the desire talk to each other at all.

Either way, a lack of words has caused our familial bond to collapse entirely.

The blame is placed on the two of them. But I can't shake the feeling that I should take part of the blame, too. Because I've quit putting in effort in the exact way that they have.

It's not that I want to give up on them, give up on our family, it's just I'm at a loss for what to do.

I want to be able to talk to them, tell them that I'm tired and I'm stressed. That I wish things were different. But there's a good possibility that they wouldn't understand.

So I lie here, helpless and defeated.