“Go shower,” he would say. “I’ve got dinner.”
“I love you,” I would say.
I would go straight from the shower to the couch. I had no words or energy for anything else; I had used it up being present for Wes. I would turn on the TV and later have no memory of what I watched.
As the TV played, I could hear the kitchen cacophony in the other room — the roasting pan landing on the stovetop, the salad tongs hitting the metal bowl, the sink turning on and off. I wanted to help but couldn’t.
My guilt grew — this time not for failing as a daughter or a mother, but as a wife. This wasn’t the marriage I promised. This wasn’t the version of me I promised. We worked best as a team, dividing and conquering. Yet here he was, holding up our entire world himself. And I was watching from the couch.
A little later, Gordo brought me dinner, setting up the dinner trays we had for TV nights, filling up my water, laying out a fresh cloth napkin and delivering a hot plate of food. I started to eat, wanting the salt and the peri-peri sauce we liked with our chicken, but I kept quiet, not wanting to ask for something else. A moment later, Gordo appeared with both.
“Thank you so much,” I said, trying to hold back tears. “I’m so sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said as he kissed my forehead. He sat down next to me and started eating.
After we were done, he took the plates into the kitchen and started cleaning. No requests for me, no asks for help. I heard him loading the dishwasher and scrubbing pans. After the dishwasher started, I heard the hiss of the spray bottle as he wiped down the counters. He not only was cleaning up but doing it to my standards.
