🌧️ When Distance Feels Louder Than Words
⸻ ✧ midday reflections ✧ ⸻
love, silence & the ache of not being understood
The house feels too quiet.
My husband took our son to his grandparents earlier, and even though I know he’s safe, I still slipped his little tracker into his bag. It just… helps me breathe easier, knowing where he is.
But I could tell my husband didn’t like it.
He didn’t say much — he never does — but the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his voice flattened, said enough.
I wish he’d just say what he’s thinking instead of making me feel like I’m wrong for caring too much. I know he thinks I’m overprotective, maybe even controlling. But when it comes to our son, I can’t help it. His parents are older, slower, and if something ever happened, I just want to know that I could get there in time. That’s all.
What hurts is that he seems more bothered by how I love than why.
He gets quiet, distant, and I’m left trying to read the silence — again.
It’s exhausting, trying to guess what I did wrong when all I did was care.
Sometimes I wonder if this is what I’m meant to settle for.
Someone who says he’s trying to make everyone happy… but forgets that “everyone” doesn’t include me lately.
Someone who clings to comfort — to his mother’s habits, to old patterns — while I’m here trying to grow, to move, to build something different for us.
I think about what his mother once told him: “I don’t want to leave your father because I’ll never find someone else who can put up with me.”
And I can’t help but feel like he’s repeating the same story.
Like love, to him, means endurance — not connection.
I don’t want that kind of love all our lives.
I want a love that feels alive.
A love that listens.
A love that notices.
But for now… I’m just here, trying to breathe through the quiet and remember that my voice, my instincts, and my heart still matter — even if he’s forgotten how to hear them.
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