I used to think that love was enough. That the silent understanding, the shared history, the comfortable rhythm of our lives was all we needed. But lately, the rhythm had become a relentless drumbeat, and I felt like a single instrument in an orchestra playing out of sync, desperately trying to hold the melody while everyone else followed a different conductor.
My days blurred into an endless loop: the demanding tiny hands, the endless laundry, the carefully planned meals, the constant, gnawing worry about things he never seemed to notice. He was a good man, don’t get me wrong. Hardworking. Dedicated. But somewhere along the line, I became a fixture, like the sofa or the kitchen sink. Useful. Necessary. But not seen. Not truly.
I remember staring at my reflection one morning, the dark circles under my eyes like badges of honor from a war I was losing. Is this all I am now? A function? The thought hit me with a force that stole my breath. It wasn’t just exhaustion; it was an emptiness. A hollowness where my own self used to be.
That evening, a quiet resolve settled over me. He was working late, as usual. The little one was finally asleep. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Instead of sinking onto the sofa to scroll through meaningless feeds, instead of tackling just one more load of laundry, I did something radical. Something utterly selfish.
Serious man at a dinner table | Source: Pexels
I ran a bath. Not a quick shower, but a deep, steaming, luxurious bath. I poured in the last of the fancy bath salts I’d been saving for a mythical “special occasion.” I lit the dusty candles I’d found in the back of the cupboard. I put on some soft, instrumental music, so low it was almost just a hum against the silence. It felt indulgent. It felt revolutionary.
As I sank into the hot water, a shudder ran through me. It wasn’t just the warmth. It was the sudden, overwhelming sensation of finally, finally being in a space that was just mine. The tension in my shoulders began to unknot. My eyelids felt heavy, not with fatigue, but with peace. For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t thinking about dinner, or schedules, or whether I’d forgotten to pack a lunch. I was just being. And it felt like a fragile, precious gift.
I must have been in there for almost an hour when I heard the front door open. His familiar footsteps. The clink of his keys. My heart did a little flutter of panic. He’s home. My bubble is about to burst. But then, the footsteps paused. They didn’t head for the kitchen, or the living room. They came towards the bathroom.
The door creaked open a fraction. He stood there, silhouetted against the hallway light, his face unreadable at first. He must have smelled the lavender, seen the flickering candlelight. He walked in, slowly, his eyes taking in the scene. My soaking hair, my eyes closed in quiet bliss, the steam curling around me. He didn’t say a word. He just pulled up the small stool we kept in there and sat down, watching me.
I opened my eyes and met his gaze. There was no anger. No confusion. Only… recognition. It was a look I hadn’t seen in years. Not since the early days, before the exhaustion had etched itself onto my face.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I haven’t seen you like this. Not in so long.”
Elderly man sitting on a bench talking to a woman | Source: Unsplash
My breath hitched. He reached out, taking my wet hand. His thumb stroked my knuckles. “You look… peaceful. You look like yourself again.” He squeezed my hand gently. “I’ve been so focused, so busy. I haven’t seen what you needed. How much you give. How much you’ve lost yourself. I’ve been blind.”
Tears welled in my eyes. Not just from the warmth of the bath or the tenderness of his touch. But because he saw me. He finally saw me. He understood. Or at least, he understood a part of it. He talked about how we needed to prioritize us, how he needed to step up, how I deserved to feel this way every day, not just as a rare indulgence. He swore he’d do better. He promised to make sure I had time for myself.
It was everything I had ever wanted to hear. The words were a balm to my soul, a quiet affirmation that I wasn’t just a machine, but a person. A woman deserving of care, of peace, of space.
I smiled, a genuine, if watery, smile. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. This is it, I thought. This is our turning point. He finally understands the power of self-care. He finally understands me.
But as I lay there, feeling his gentle touch, hearing his earnest promises, a different kind of pain bloomed in my chest. A silent, agonizing ache. He was right. He had been blind. And even now, he only saw the surface. He saw the need for a bath, for quiet, for a moment of peace.
He saw the effect, but he still didn’t understand the cause.
The truth was, that “self-care” wasn’t just about reclaiming myself from the daily grind. It was about bracing myself. It was about finding a moment of solitary strength to try and put myself back together, piece by shattered piece.
Because earlier that afternoon, while he was in a meeting, while the little one was napping, I got the call. The one that confirmed what I already knew: there was no heartbeat. Our second baby was gone.
A person holding a passport at an airport | Source: Unsplash
My bath wasn’t just self-care. It was my silent, desperate, utterly private vigil. My attempt to wash away the fear, the guilt, the crushing, unbearable grief. And as he sat there, holding my hand, promising to see my needs, he still had no idea that half of my heart had just been ripped out of me, and that I was trying to learn how to breathe again without it.
