An Average Monday of Departure

I don’t ask you to stay back when you leave on Monday mornings. But my insides plead. I cannot cry anymore when you leave because that’s improper for an adult. I cannot kiss you goodbye because what would our daughter think. I just watch you leave. I watch you not look back. And then I rush back with an empty heart to hold the 6 AM water.

Could I have asked you to stay? I brush that thought away, because now I must be practical. Perhaps practicality only means not doing things you want to do.

You ask me why I am not like the other housewives. You tell me I am better off than them, then why am I not happy. And I hate these questions. I understand the boundaries that arise due to responsibilities, but believe me, my dreams are well within them. They’re not much because all of them are around you. Yet, why do they seem so far? Would you be happy if your dreams were not possible too?

You tell me you can’t stay because you must work. You pretend to make the big sacrifices. But I know deep down you look forward to your work. You spend your week in the city. You see new people in the buses and the trains, in the platforms and the overbridges. You touch new air, and smell new fragrances. You have people to talk to. You have jokes to laugh to. You tell me that you do all this for our children. I know you do. But do you despise your life?

No, I don’t too. I love our house, but not every single day. I love to cook and knit and clean and keep, but not every single day. Sometimes the walls look too old, the food tastes too same, the kitchen smells too familiar, and the house feels too small. I crouch in the bed an night while I try hard to sleep. Then I hate waking up in the morning because I know what happens in the day.

Nothing excites me anymore except Saturdays when you come back. You’d be surprised because we fight the entire Sunday. You shout at me for not doing enough. I shout at you for not being there. Our Sundays are only fights. But Sundays are at least different. Sundays make me sad. But Sundays at least make me feel.

I sometimes wonder, why me? And I fear, is this is the rest of my life? Can we not start over? I try to shut these thoughts. I try to convince myself of the normalcy of my life, the silliness of my complains, the sufficiency of my possessions. But I can’t find peace within myself. I have become as small as our house, and my peace has withered like the paint off our walls. Hopelessness has taken over my loneliness. I want to talk like you do. I want to forget like you have. I want to be admired like you are. But I wouldn’t want any of that if I really had you. Really.

I don’t ask you to stay back when you leave on Monday mornings. But my insides plead.