Only Child: Twice a Wife

When My Husband Dies

Please—just flip me over, stamp my behind with something official-looking (preferably in red ink, maybe with a flourish):

UNFIT FOR MARRIAGE.

Not because I’m incapable. Oh no. I’m perfectly capable.

Yes, I could “do the work.”

I just don’t want to.

Been there. Twice.

The first time? A rough draft.

The second? Edited, revised, spellchecked.

Still: work.

Still: expectations, calendars, texts about dinner, shared expenses, shared closets, dust bunnies, Amazon passwords, and the last slice of pie. 

Who did laundry last? Why was this moved?

Prior to marriage I knew where everything was.

Dinner was always good enough. My cleaning always clean enough. My sheets folded fine 

And frankly?

I’m tired.

My grandfather—Papaw—also an only child,

hit marriage number two and said,

“That’ll do.”

I respect that.

Two is my limit too.

It's not you. It's me. Really. 

Only child syndrome. I swear it's real.

Because the truth is: I don’t want to share anymore.

Not my time. Not my towels.

Definitely not my leftovers.

I’ve tried. I’ve been a team player.

~ CoMpRoMiSeD ~

I’ve made chore charts.

I’ve scheduled check-ins.

Yes, I can cook (sometimes), clean (sort of), keep plants alive (if they’re forgiving),

and I once successfully folded a fitted sheet—though it may have been a dream.

There's only so much "sharing is caring" an only child can do and I'm almost to the limit.

But here’s the other issue:

None of it will ever be quite right for someone else. Not like how what I do is always good enough for me.

And I’m finally okay with that.

I’ll just live a lovely, peculiar little life by myself.

Because I mostly live in my own head anyway.

It’s cozy in there. Quiet.

Lots of throw pillows.

Using the fragrant cleaning supplies I like

That everyone else thinks are too strong scented.

Nobody asking,

“What’s for dinner?”

or

“Did you remember to...?”

If I forgot, I forgot. It won't bother me none.

I’m tired of rehearsing empathy like a play I never auditioned for.

I’m tired of pretending I care about how you want the dishwasher loaded or if the mayo is in the right spot of the fridge. Or saving enough chips for the next person. Don't get me wrong. Often marriage sways in my favor...it's not about give and take. It's not about balance. It's that I want it all—all the time—all take. 

As a kid, it was all mine—

my toys, my snacks, my stage.

Me, me, me, me.

I drank the last soda of the case every time.

Every. Single. Case. It was all mine.

And honestly?

I miss that version of life.

It was delightful.

Briefly thought about a "my way or the highway" marriage, but stopped. Even if you were willing to have me call all the shots, I'm not even willing to do the work of leading. Besides, that's not marriage, that's a hostage.

Now, look—

I’m not a monster.

I could be your boyfriend. Or girlfriend.

Your friend-friend. Your snack-bringer.

Your backup emergency contact.

Your part-time muse. Your slightly eccentric aunt who always brings good snacks and insists you try goat yoga once.

I’ll love you. I’ll cheer for you. I’ll loan you my good scissors. Bake you cookies. Whatever. I will do a lot. Maybe even pay your bills once and a while.

But marriage?

Again?

Nope.

We're probably not moving in together either.

Let’s not ruin a good thing with joint checking or shared Wi-Fi. I can't love anyone enough to do this again. I can love you but not like that. If you ask...

I’m running away!

(Spiritually. Emotionally. Maybe into the woods with Baba Yaga.)

Not yet of course. I love my husband and will happily see this through to the end. But after the end? Never again.

Because I won’t.

I can’t.

I will not—

Not again.

I'm fine with knowing I could do the work—

Did it twice...

I just don't want to do it again.

Please decommission me.

Set me out to pasture.

Mark me off the guest list.

I'll be at home happily alone.