Sunday evenings are always the hardest.
My procrastinating son cries as he rushes to finish homework due tomorrow, while my emotionally distant husband wears headphones, engrossed in his video game.
Neither of them wants anything to do with me.
My son glares at me resentfully after I scolded him to tears. My husband finds me annoying and pretends not to see me.
I stand by the dining table clearing away leftovers, silently convincing myself this
is
all
my own doing.
But my heart aches unbearably.
As night falls, Kevin retreats to the study to rest. Tommy falls asleep with tears still clinging to his lashes. I stand in the bathroom staring at my own bitter face.
This marks the third month of Kevin’s cold shoulder treatment. A full three months – so long I’ve nearly forgotten the reason for our cold war.
Under the same roof, he hasn’t spoken a word to me. I’ve stubbornly waged war against him
He’s in the wrong, so I won’t apologize. But I can’t sleep.
I walk to Tommy’s room to pack his schoolbag.
too.
I look down and notice the new notebook I bought him. In the “Rewards” column, childish handwriting reads:
“I hope Mom disappears.”