Married to Fear

Happy birthday to me, I think to myself as the clock strikes midnight. It’s my 34th birthday, and yet, it feels like the loneliest one I’ve ever had. Dmitriy is asleep in the other room—I can hear his snoring through the quiet. When did he stop caring about me? When did my birthday become so insignificant to him?

I think back to four years ago, before our daughter was born. He used to be so different—kind, attentive, brimming with love. He would always whisper sweet things in my ear, making me feel cherished. Even the sex then felt electric, full of passion and connection. Now, we hardly even make time for each other.

Our love life has faded into occasional moments, overshadowed by his endless work responsibilities. Being a lawyer demands so much from him—it’s a job that keeps him constantly busy. And somehow, in that busyness, I’ve been left behind.

Our relationship has changed so much over the years, the sparks and the fire that once burned between us slowly fading away under the weight of his demanding job and our responsibilities as parents. Do I still love him? I wonder. Does he still love me? I begin to reflect, trying to recall the last time he told me he loved me.

What comes to mind is that in the few recent instances, I have been the one to say it first, and his response has simply been a “me too.” Why am I still with him? The question lingers. But then it hits me—I’m a stay-at-home mom. What would I even do if I left him?

I shake my head fiercely, trying to silence the doubts. Enough of that! It’s Dmitriy, the boy I’ve been with since we were practically kids. I still remember the day we met. I was 19, he was 22. My handsome Russian boyfriend back then, full of charm and promise.

I feel the urge to go into the room where he lies sleeping, his snores echoing through the stillness of the dark apartment. I want to curl up next to him, to let him hold me, to feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, the warmth of his hands on my skin. How deeply I miss those hands. How deeply I miss him.

Even though he’s here, it feels as though he’s impossibly far away. It’s my birthday, and for once, he should be the one making the effort to come to me. Every time we have sex, it’s me going to him. When I need a hug, I’m always the one reaching out. If I want a kiss, it’s me initiating it. I’ve had enough.

Instead, I stay in the darkness. It’s comforting, almost pleasant. The shadows and whispers of the night turn into my closest companions. I can’t explain why, but more and more often, I find myself drawn to just sitting here, enveloped by the quiet void. And strangely enough, I’ve grown to love it.

Living on a small island with no friends and no family beyond my husband and daughter, the darkness at night begins offering me something no one else could. It started two years ago, this habit of sitting alone in the stillness. And over time, I realize this is exactly what I have been searching for.

Seven years ago, we moved to Malta, a small island in the heart of the Mediterranean Sea. Over this time, I manage to make a few friends, but none have become truly close to me—except for Emma, a Maltese woman I meet up with about once a month. She’s busy and has her own social life, always out and about.

Perhaps it’s my role as a mother that keeps me more tied to home. I can’t leave whenever I want, not in the way Emma does. I’m tethered to the responsibilities of parenthood, unable to simply go out and join the carefree social scene that seems to captivate her. Strangely, I do feel somewhat fortunate to have her in my life, even if our friendship remains somewhat shallow and superficial.

Still, on nights like this, when the apartment is quiet and the only sound is Dmitriy’s steady snores, the sense of isolation gnaws at me. In these moments, I wonder if this is all there is to my life—an endless cycle of domestic duties and the company of a man who seems more like a roommate than a loving partner.