Mothers Day (If You Can Even Call It That)

 

It’s 2:50 a.m. on the Monday after Mother’s Day.

And I’m out here again.
In the shed I built, with the wood I keep collecting like it might one day build me a life I actually want to live.
It’s cold. It’s quiet.
It’s mine.
And it’s the only place I don’t have to pretend I’m okay.

I didn’t cook dinner today.
Not because I didn’t want to — but because I already knew no one was coming.
Jonny said he’d be home in time to eat with me.
He looked me in the eye the night before and said it —
right after telling me, he was spending the day with his girlfriend and her mom.

And I said OKAY.
Even though it hurt.
Even though I wanted to scream.
Because I didn’t want to ruin his day, and I was still holding on to that one sliver of hope —
at least he’ll be home for dinner.

But that hope got picked apart all day.
One text at a time.
One excuse at a time.
He wasn’t going to make it back yet.
They were doing something else.
Could he stay a little longer?

Every message was a knife in disguise.
Not sharp. Just steady.
Cutting me down in pieces.

And eventually, I gave up.

I told him to do whatever he wanted.
To just let me know.
Because I was already disappointed.
Already crying.
Already sitting in the silence of a day that was supposed to be mine —
and watching it slip away like it never mattered.

And Chad said he’d handle dinner anyway.
Which, as always, meant meat. Just… meat.
Burgers. Brats. No sides. No thought.
No effort beyond the bare minimum.

No one asked me what I wanted.
No one cared to make it feel like Mother’s Day.

I was up all night the night before.
Hauling wood. Setting up the shed.
Trying to get everything out of the way so I could spend the day doing what I actually wanted —
just being with the people, I love.

I didn’t get into bed until nearly eight in the morning.

And a few hours later, Chad got up.

I was half-asleep when I asked him, soft and tired,
“Where are you going?”
“Are you coming back when you're done?”

And he snapped.

“I have a headache. I need my coffee. My smoke. I need to let the dogs out. And I guess I’ll start the kitchen.”

I asked him why he was being so cold.
Why he was treating me like I was a burden for even speaking.
And he said,
“Because that’s what you told me you wanted for Mother’s Day.”

But I didn’t.
I didn’t want a clean kitchen.
I didn’t want checklists.
I wanted time.
Time with the two people who say they love me.
And one of them had already ditched me.

I was just asking for a moment.
One minute.
For him to come back to bed.
To hold me.
To tell me he loves me.
To give me the kind of softness I never get unless I beg for it.

But instead of comfort, he gave me a fight.
Over nothing.
Over everything.

Eventually, he came back.
And we had sex — because it was Sunday.
Because that’s supposed to be my day.
The one time every week where I get to feel wanted.
Needed.
Touched in a way that feels like I exist.
I count down to Sundays.
It’s not just about getting off — it’s the only time I get to stop thinking.
Stop fixing.
Stop carrying the weight of this house, this family, this broken fucking life.

For that one moment, it’s supposed to be about me.
The way he touches me. The way he looks at me. The way he knows exactly what I like.
For that one moment, I can pretend I’m not invisible.
That someone sees me. Feels me. Wants me.

But not this time.

This time, I felt it before he even kissed me.
That distance. That disconnect.
That coldness you can’t fake your way through.
And the worst part? I kept going.
Because I needed it.
Because I needed that moment of peace, even if I had to take it alone.

But when it was over, and he finished, and I was just lying there —
I realized he hadn’t been present for a second of it.
He was somewhere else. In his head. In a fog.
And I was just another task he checked off his list.

Another thing he did to shut me up.
To say see, I did it.
Like sex with me was a chore.
A husbandly duty.
A checkbox.

And I felt disgusting.
Not because of what we did.
But because I let myself hope.
Because I thought maybe, just maybe, I’d get to matter for five fucking minutes.
But instead, I laid there, staring at the ceiling, trying not to cry until he left the room.

I got in the shower.

And cried the kind of tears you can’t explain.
The kind that come from a place you can’t point to.
The kind that doesn’t make a sound — but gut you all the same.

And Jonny never came home.
And Chad never really came back.
And I sat alone on the deck with my hoodie pulled tight around me
pretending the cold in my bones was just the wind.

I’m tired of asking gently for things that should be given freely.
Tired of hoping someone will notice I’m breaking without needing to watch me fall apart.

Every time I think maybe this year will hurt less,
it still ends the same.

Alone.
Holding back tears I never earned.
Grieving people who are still alive.
And quietly folding more wood into a pile that no one else understands.

Because out here, at least the silence makes sense.