Page 6 of Dream with Me

“I’m not asking you to give anything up. You’re not understanding what I’m trying to say.”

She throws her head back and closes her eyes, no longer looking at me. The silence in the room is thick. When she turns to look at me again, the light has gone out of her eyes. She looks... defeated.

“Well, welcome to the club because apparently, you either never understand what I say, or you don’t listen. Both suck. So, can you please leave and give me some time so I can get my work done? I want to go to bed, and I have to finish this before I do.”

Shannon turns back to her work and essentially pretends I’m not there. I guess I’ve been dismissed.

I open my mouth to answer, but everything I want to say is jumbled around in my head. I take a deep breath, count to three, and then let it out.

“I’m sorry I upset you.”

She whips up her head and glares at me.

“What exactly is it you think I’m upset about? I’d love to know what you took from all of this?”

There’s exhaustion in her voice; it drips off her body as I look at the dark circles under her eyes and her sagging shoulders.

Even knowing it’s not going to help things, all I can force from my mouth is, “I’m going to go get a shower. I love you.”

She turns away and doesn’t reply.

It strikes me at this moment that my wife is unhappy. Not just this moment, but every day. Every single day. I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t even know who to ask. Most of my friends are either her brothers or are married to her sisters. My mentor is her father. I don’t have anyone to ask about how to fix this.

Five minutes later, the hot water from the shower is raining over me, all I can think about is that I’m failing. Truth be told, I have been for a while. I want my family to have everything, but no matter what I do to try to make it happen, I always fall short. When I work extra so my kids can participate in all the activities they’re involved in, it means time away from them. It means my wife is left to carry even more of the weight at home, and like tonight, I miss tucking my kids into bed. It means my wife misses much-needed time with her sister. It means she’s so exhausted, yet she’s up working at eight-thirty when I know she’d rather be in bed.

I want to make Shannon’s life easier, but I must be doing it wrong because, more and more, I’m seeing that look on her face I recognize all too well. The look my mom used to wear after my dad left, and she had to handle it all on her own.

I’ve been with Shannon for eighteen years. We have four kids, and a scruffy terrier named Scrappy. From the outside, it all looks great. On the inside, though, there’s this nagging sensation that something is wrong. Something bigger than a rough patch. Bigger than I know how to fix.

CHAPTER4

SHANNON

I’ve never been one to sleep in. My entire life, I’ve woken up to an alarm clock, whether for high school, college or to get the kids off to school. Oftentimes, it doesn’t even take an alarm. Those days, it’s little fingers tugging at the old T-shirts of Troy’s I sleep in. Little voices asking if I’m awake because they’re hungry or scared from a nightmare. When it is the alarm clock, I usually set it for seven a.m., even on weekends, because I like to be up before the kids.

But I love the rare mornings, like today, when I wake up naturally and am rested. I stretch my arms and let out a groan as my tired muscles wake up. When I turn my head to the side, the glowing blue numbers of the clock tell me it’s nine-thirty a.m., and my heart races. Panic rises in my chest.

“Oh no, no, no!”

What the hell happened to my alarm?

I bolt upright and race out the bedroom door without even peeing first, which is a big deal, because, after having four kids, when I have to pee, I better pee. Still, my panic drives me as I race to the kids’ rooms and find them all empty. As I head downstairs, I nearly fall down the steps I’m going so fast. God only knows what kind of havoc I’m going to find, and mom guilt slaps me in the face. What kind of mother oversleeps and lets her four kids run rogue?

When I get to the bottom of the steps, the living room isn’t a disaster, and the sound of giggles and chuckling fills my ears. I’m confused, then Troy’s deep laugh makes its way to me as I follow the voices to the kitchen. Relief washes over me.

Oh, thank God. I did not leave my kids alone all morning—their dad is here.

I stop walking when it hits me that my brain’s default is to assume my husband isn’t here. Because he’s so often not. Troy is either picking up shifts at the Station or working side gigs with a few of his fellow firefighters who do minor construction—decks, bathroom updates—and home repair.

I continue to make my way to the kitchen and stand in the doorway as I take in the scene around me. My four kids sit calmly at the kitchen table, glasses of milk and bowls in front of each of them. None of them see me yet, and I watch as Troy, wearing my pink apron, scoops a little bit of brown sugar into each of their bowls.

“Enjoy, my little ones. Some brown sugar for you and some brown sugar for you.” He imitates a French accent.

The elation in the room is palpable, and our children smile and laugh at their father. I fight back tears and don’t even know why. I should be happy that Troy’s a good dad.

When he’s here anyway.

“Mama! Mama!” I turn my attention to my baby and see Chase grinning and sporting a milk mustache on his chubby little face.

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