One hundred and eighteen

It is hard.

Really hard.

We are tiptoeing around the issue, mostly me. I think we both know my decision, share my reluctance to voice it out because when I do, it becomes more real. So we are holding on to this blissful ignorance for as long as we can. Maybe I am holding on to it more.

But it’s unavoidable. And it is threatening to suffocate us. The awkwardness has seeped into our routines, habits. It is there in the way we sleep at night, the spooning. The slight wincing before a quick recovery when Brandon raises his voice over the phone. Or, how reluctant I am to take his hand or hug him back. I don’t even ask him about his day.

Nighttime is my favourite. On the bed, we pretend to be normal. Normal enough to allow him spoon me or place his hand on my belly. It’s the most skin contact we share. But each morning comes with the same fear, a realisation. I can’t hide or pretend forever.

I am scared. I am scared of my husband.