ChiCuapCuap~

For the past few days, something in my husband has felt… altered. Not abruptly, not loudly, but in a way that unsettles. As if something within him has quietly shifted out of place. Our laughter, once harmless, now seems to grate on him too loud, too intrusive. Whatever my child does is deemed wrong, and somehow, I become the recipient of his discontent. Each time his temper rises, I retreat into silence. Not because I am blameless, nor because I have nothing to say, but because I have learned that resistance only prolongs the unrest.

And yet, at the very beginning of this month, something fractured.

We argued, truly argued, in a way we rarely do. Because this time, I did not remain silent. I answered him. I met his gaze without flinching. I returned every harsh word, my composure unraveling until even my own restraint betrayed me, and even threw my phone in a surge of emotion.

It all unfolded before our child, who was already crying in pain, his small arm having been roughly pulled as my husband dragged him from the living room, where laughter had only moments before filled the air.

The contrast was unbearable.

Truthfully, I have been enduring for far longer than I care to admit. Existing in a state of quiet endurance, hoping that something might shift on its own.

He is aware that he is unemployed, and yet he does not seem to grasp the gravity of that reality. If he cannot yet provide in one way, could he not compensate in another? The house, the child, the invisible labor that sustains our daily lives these are not mine alone to carry.

Isn’t this our home? Then why does everything feel like it’s solely my responsibility? The house, our child, everything falls on me. I am so, so tired. And yet, I carry them. Exhaustion has become a constant undercurrent in me. Meanwhile, he drifts through his days, retiring at three in the morning after hours of gaming, waking near midday, repeating the same rhythm without disruption. Even in moments meant for togetherness, his attention remains tethered to his phone. His presence is merely physical, his mind and affections remain elsewhere, inaccessible.

It is a peculiar kind of loneliness. And slowly, inevitably, it ignited something in me. All of this kept building inside me until I finally broke.

If even our laughter is an affront to him, then perhaps it is we who must leave. I told him we would return to my parents’ home, to a place where my child’s joy would not be treated as a disturbance. I spoke with a steadiness that belied the turbulence within me. My child’s cries threaded through every word, turning the moment into something I will not easily forget.

Then he left. No explanation. No attempt to mend what had just been shattered. Just absence.

A thought, stark and unsettling, crossed my mind. If his anger had escalated further, if he had raised his hand again, that would have been my definitive moment. The moment I would leave without hesitation. But somehow, he held himself back.

Still, I could not help but wonder, he has only just secured a single freelance project, and already he carries himself as though burdened beyond measure. If such a small responsibility unsettles him, what would happen if he were entrusted with more? 

A harsher thought followed, unbidden. Perhaps this is why he has not yet been granted stability. Perhaps he is not ready. And yet, even as the thought formed, I recoiled from it. What kind of wife entertains such notions?

I have been told, often, that a wife must remain grateful, must remain supportive, that a wife’s disposition can ease her husband’s path to provision. But if that gratitude must be feigned, does it still hold meaning? And would God not perceive the dissonance between what is spoken and what is truly felt?

Then came another possibility, distance.

Perhaps we would be better apart, at least for a time. Perhaps in separation, we might find clarity that proximity has denied us. Or perhaps… it is nothing more than a justification, a quiet permission I grant myself to leave a home that no longer feels hospitable to my child’s laughter.

Some time later, he returned. He held us, both of us and apologized. His voice softer, his presence gentler, as though attempting to gather what had come undone.

But something within me remained unmoved.

And that, perhaps, is what troubles me most, not the anger, not the argument, but the quiet, growing realization that forgiveness no longer comes to me as easily as it once did.