To Love Is To Sacrifice

The dryer beeps, letting me know the clothes are ready to be folded. It’s nearly nine at night and the house is silent. Unlike its normal state of chaos with the children destroying the façade of a tidy home. In this moment the silence is intoxicating but in the best of ways.

I tip toe past my daughter’s room, afraid a single echo from a creaky floorboard might wake her. She never hears me when I’m shouting for her to wake up from across the hall, but she’d stir awake at the sudden flick of a light switch or click of a closing door several rooms down. Kids are odd in that way though. They seem to move to their own beat at all times. I guess, that’s what makes them so fascinating to watch grow.

It’s not until I’m right outside the laundry room that I release the breath I wasn’t aware I was holding in. A sigh of relief follows as I crouch down with an empty hamper and open the dryer door. Then, one by one I pull out an article of clothing to fold it before placing it inside the basket on top of the correct pile.

I hum a tune to entertain my boredom and distract my overactive mind from the threats of filling in for the silence. The task of folding laundry quickly becomes tedious as every other motherly duty does. The repetition brings no new stimulation or excitement to reward the job at hand.

But I knew what I was signing up for when I became a mother. I knew what to expect and tried to prepare as much as possible for a life of solitude and sacrifice. It can be argued that my reward is the adoring smile and sweet loving words from my young children, but I believe my sweet babies would give me the same gratitude and love even if I were less.

Children don’t fully grasp how much a parent gives, because it’s not their job to understand such things just yet.

The sounds of my aging knees crack as I stand up after closing the dryer door. The basket is tucked beneath my arm and resting against my hip as I tip-toe down the hall by my daughter’s door again.

This time, I stop to peak through her half open door to see a sliver of light caressing her little face. The length of her hair is tucked behind her ear and sprawled out over her pillow. She hasn't moved even the slightest since I watched her slip into her dreams an hour ago.

Satisfied, I retreat back and continue down the hall toward my eldest room to make sure he’s asleep too. I quietly open his door and peek my head through. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness that consumes his room, but I’m able to make out his face. The glow from his digital alarm clock on the nightstand supplies little light but enough to see he’s sleeping. I smile as I gaze at his face. Even now in the limited light, I can see how much he looks like his father and how little he resembles me.

My husband always said we’d have two children, a girl and a boy. Our daughter would be a carbon copy of me and our son of him, he was right. The thought floods my mind and body with warmth as I close his door and proceed to the kitchen.

I place the basket of clothes on top of the island table before pouring myself a glass of wine. I make my way out to the porch that overlooks the city in the far distance to decompress. There’s something about the way it seems to come alive when darkness envelopes everything around it, that draws me in. Just when I start to feel alone, as if the entire world is sound asleep except for me, I see the sparkle of lights and bright glow of the city that’s full of life.

The bench whines as I sit and slowly swing myself back and forth. The night is consumed by a symphony of crickets and fireflies that flicker and dance all over. A cool spring breeze kisses my face and gently tussles my hair. It carries an aroma between something Earthy and floral with it, which reminds me of those late summer nights before I had kids. The nights when I was much younger and free spirited. When all that mattered was experiencing life’s journey through adventure and the company you kept.

Those memories become harder to swallow the more distance time puts between them and myself. The only memories that have flooded my thoughts over the last several years are the ones where I’m alone raising two children.

I take a sip of my wine and lean back against the seat, staring at the city and listening to the sounds of life that encompass me. I’m exhausted but I don’t dare crawl into bed just yet. I want to enjoy the little time to myself I have before tomorrow brings a whole new day.

I let this moment sweep me away until I realize my wine is nearly gone. I’m not sure how long I’ve been out here, but the thought of sleep once again threatens me. The dread of turning in to an empty bed sickens me too.

Reluctantly, I check my watch to see that it’s nearly eleven o'clock at night. Getting enough sleep is just as rare to come by as getting some time to myself, but I’d rather be well rested than tired come tomorrow.

I look down at my hand holding the empty wine glass to see my wedding band and engagement ring. I set the glass aside from my trembling hand as a heaviness fills my chest.

Mindlessly, I twirl the rings around my finger, “This isn’t what I signed up for,” I whisper beneath my breath. I let out a long sigh.

It’s true, this isn’t what I signed up for, but I knew what I was getting myself into when I fell in love with my husband.

Guilt consumes me at the thought of him. Love began to feel like a foreign concept in our marriage but only I’m to blame. I let myself miss the parts of me that were in the past, while forgetting the parts of me now. I allowed myself the believe that I’d been a single parent raising two children all on my own. When in reality I have been doing my part as a wife and caretaker as he'd been doing his as a husband and provider.

He may not have been able to be a part of our lives as much as any of us would’ve liked but he has sacrificed for his family and for the lives of so many others. I should feel like the luckiest woman alive.

I held on to the delusions of what it meant to live the American Dream by forgetting what it meant to fight for it too.

It was my husband who had experienced life’s journey with me since we were teenagers. We got to experience falling in love with the same person over and over again. That love gave us a family and a place to call home.

My husband gave me more than just those missed memories, he gave me himself. He gave me every part of him and with that came a rollercoaster of memories worth holding onto forever.

I hang my head as the building pressure behind my eyes gives way. Tears stream down my cheeks, burning against my sensitive flesh. Each sob echoes with the grief of my guilt. The bitter taste of my selfish thoughts linger at the back of my tongue as a reminder not to take things for granted. I close my eyes and let myself hurt.

Lost in the pain of my aching heart, I don’t startle when a gentle hand cups my chin and tilts it up. A thumb streaks over the trails of tears across my cheek to wipe them away.

My eyes reluctantly dart open to be met by the most beautiful sight. I contemplate whether I finally lost my mind but I don’t care if it were the case. My heart beats livelier now than in the past year. I want to chase this high I’m feeling but is what I’m seeing real?

My husband stands before me smiling in his military uniform with a warmth I’d forgotten existed.

This is definitely not what I signed up for, but I’m thankful this is what I got.