Chapter 2 - The Cold Side of the Bed
The nights were the hardest part of the marriage,
because darkness had a way of stripping away the lies.
Grant came home late,
usually after ten,
smelling of expensive scotch and the city air.
He would undress in the dressing room,
his movements quiet and efficient,
avoiding the creak of the floorboards.
I would pretend to be asleep,
my eyes squeezed shut,
listening to the sound of his breathing.
He would climb into the bed,
staying on his side,
a vast expanse of Egyptian cotton between us.
There was no touch,
no whispered "goodnight,"
no reaching out in the dark to find my hand.
It was as if we were two strangers sharing a hotel room,
bound only by a legal contract and a shared address.
I could feel the coldness radiating from him,
a chill that no blanket could warm.
He was thinking about stocks,
or acquisitions,
or perhaps someone else entirely.
I lay there,
the baby moving restlessly inside me,
feeling the weight of the silence.
I remembered when we used to talk until three in the morning,
planning our future,
laughing about the tiny house we used to rent.
Now,
the house was huge,
but the conversation was dead.
If I tried to speak,
he would give me a one-word answer,
his eyes never leaving his tablet.
"How was your day?"
I would ask,
trying to bridge the gap.
"Fine,"
he would say,
already moving away.
"The baby is kicking a lot today,"
I would try,
hoping for a spark of interest.
"That's good,"
he would mutter,
without looking up.
He was a man who had mastered the art of being present without being there.
I began to wonder when the change had started,
was it a slow erosion,
or a sudden cliff?
Perhaps it was the money,
the way it acted like a wall,
blocking out the messy parts of humanity.
Grant didn't like mess,
and pregnancy was messy,
emotions were messy,
and I was becoming a problem he couldn't solve with a check.
I watched the digital clock on the bedside table,
the red numbers ticking away the seconds of my life.
I felt like I was disappearing,
bit by bit,
until there was nothing left but a name and a bank account.
I thought about the child,
our son,
who would be born into this coldness.
Would he feel the lack of warmth?
Would he think this was what love looked like?
The thought made me want to scream,
to break the expensive lamps,
to tear the silk curtains from the windows.
But I stayed still,
a perfect wife in a perfect bed,
playing my role until the very end.
Grant shifted in his sleep,
turning his back to me,
creating a barrier of bone and muscle.
I reached out,
my hand hovering an inch above his shoulder,
wanting to touch him,
wanting to find the man I had married.
But I pulled back,
afraid of the rejection,
afraid of the emptiness I might find.
The moonlight spilled across the floor,
white and clinical,
illuminating the distance between us.
We were miles apart,
even though we were inches away.
I closed my eyes,
praying for sleep to take me,
praying for a dream where I was loved.
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The bed felt like an island in a dark ocean,
and I was drifting further and further from the shore.
