Fixer

I can’t admit how I feel. Instead, I ask how you are. You say you’re well and hug our daughter. She holds you longer than she holds me. The car ride to her dance recital is quiet. I ask if she’s nervous. She nods.

Six months have passed. I’m softer. More knowing. Yet lost. There’s a distance I can’t shorten. My best isn’t good enough. My worst is worse than anything else you remember.

I watch her dance with grace on stage. A butterfly with no memory of her parents dividing. Of having to live between two homes. Of worrying about more losses in her life.

The car ride back is also quiet. I tell her she danced beautifully. She smiles. There’s a sadness here. I see you in the front yard with jeans and a crop top. She runs to you. I remain in the car.

I come home. Not the home I was raised in with two fighting parents. Not the home we renovated together and welcomed our child in. This home is empty. Too quiet. There’s not enough love.

I sit alone and absorb the value of sharing time. I miss the three of us at the breakfast table. The morning kiss I’d give you. Watching our daughter munch on cereal and bob her head to a new song she learned in school as we sang along.

What could I have done more? What should I have done less? I changed the tone of my voice. I offered you space. I finally listened to listen. But you told me it was too late.

People grow apart, everyone says. This is an admittance of my failure. A child who saw what a marriage shouldn’t be turning into a man who fought to create the opposite, only to turn back into that same fearful child.

What will happen as she ages? Will she detach herself as protection? Will she have constant anxiety? Will she hide her feelings from me? Will she love me the same way she loves you?

I rearrange each room. The coffee table must be aligned with the TV stand. The pillows must be on top of the comforter. The plates must be next to the bowls. The glass cups must have their own shelf. It’s how you always wanted it.

I still like blue, so I chose blue curtains. It’s what you hated. I still drink water after each bite of food. It’s what annoyed you. I still floss after I brush my teeth. It’s what you scolded me for.

It’s hard to figure out what parts of me should change and what parts can remain the same. I’m learning and relearning. Evolving while breaking. The grieving period hasn’t ended. But I can’t give it the attention it deserves.

Life is fast paced. Responsibilities pile up. Silent moments I have to myself late at night are spent praying for you both. I forget to pray for myself. What would I tell God? Repair me. Repair this. You can’t just fix everything, you told me. But I have to. I’m a fixer. I’ve always been.