Amber
Amber
He resents me, but it’s not my fault. He says that he loves me regardless, but I don’t know if that’s true. I’ve tried to believe it, but it gets harder year by year. I’m not sure I can go on like this much longer. Something has to change. Between the stress in our marriage and the pressure that comes with my job as an ICU nurse, I’m about to crack.
I head out after another grueling shift, worrying at every curve as I drive. I pull into the driveway and shut off the engine, but my mind continues to run rampant as I walk to the front door of our home—a home built on honesty and communication that slowly cracked at the foundation.
I pause before I stick in the key. I try to whisk away the anxiety with a deep breath, and then, before I fully realize it, I’m inside. Shane is lying on the couch asleep with an almost empty bowl of what looks like leftover spaghetti on his lap. I decide to let him be. I start to sneak off to take a shower as I do every night, but he must have heard me because he moves, and the bowl of spaghetti falls to the floor. It startles me but not him. He wakes up slowly and picks up the bowl like it’s no big deal. It isn’t. There is barely any mess.
“Amber?” he says groggily.
“Hey,” I say, feeling the effects of fatigue myself.
“How was work?” he says, his eyes almost fully open now.
I sigh. “Horrible.”
He doesn’t say anything else. He gets up, takes the bowl to the kitchen, then comes back with a rag and proceeds to pick up the noodles with it.
“How was—” I begin to ask him how his day was as I always do, but I already know the answer, and this time the words don’t come out. I’m shocked by what does come out of my mouth instead.
“Do you still love me, Shane?”
“What?”
He is floored. If he wasn’t fully awake before, he is now. We’ve had intense conversations about our relationship and the one thing it all boils down to, but I’ve never come right out and asked him. He chokes out his answer.
“Of-of course I do.”
“Shane, please be honest with me. You barely ever touch me anymore. When was the last time we had sex?”
“I-I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“I can’t do this anymore,” I say softly, not wanting to hurt him.
“Do what?”
“I can’t have kids, and you’ve stopped loving me because of it.”
“I still—”
“It’s OK, Shane. I don’t hate you. You don’t have to keep pretending. I want you to be happy. I thought our love was stronger, but it’s OK. I want you to have a family.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m . . . I’m saying I think we should get a divorce.”
“Amber, please. We can work this out. We can go back to the doctor; maybe they can do something else. It’s not too late.”
“We’ve tried everything. I’m thirty-eight. It’s done. I’m not meant to have a kid, but you still can. You can find someone younger and fertile, and you’ll fall in love with her, and you can have your family. It’s OK,” I say, trying not to cry.
“I-I don’t know if I can let you go,” he says as tears fill his eyes.
“You can. You have to. I can’t go on like this, knowing I can’t give you the one thing you’ve always wanted.”
“Amber, I . . . I—”
“Let go, Shane. Just let go.”
“You’re . . . you’re right. I’m sorry. I haven’t been fair to you. I know it’s not your fault. You deserve someone who will love all of you, no matter what. Are you . . . are you sure? I—”
“I’m sure,” I sniffle.
It was a long time coming. The first two years of our marriage we weren’t worried about kids. In fact, we proactively made sure we didn’t have any. Then we stopped prevention. If it happened, it happened. We both knew we were ready if it did. It wasn’t until five years in, me hitting thirty-three, knowing time was running out, that we actively started trying. Then the trying didn’t take. I suggested several times that we adopt, but he wants a biological child, someone to pass on his family genes to. I can’t blame him for that. Now he will have another chance. A chance with someone else.
It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I should feel relieved that it will soon be over, but somehow, I feel like the worst is yet to come. Something beyond my marriage. I don’t know why I feel this way, but it’s like a battle against an invisible enemy is on the horizon.
