It was one of those mornings again. When I woke up groggy and in a rut of sadness, opening my eyes to find my husband had left me once again, to work his long and draining hours while I tended to the home with hardly anything else to do.
Aching and throbbing from a horrible night of rest, plagued by the stress of being a housewife that barely gets the love and affection she treasured years before. That’s what happens in marriages, right?
The honeymoon phase ends, and the affection and clinginess starts to die down as the flame that once ignited the passion in the relationship starts to fade. A dead bedroom. We all have one at some point.
My mother warned me of this. How it would affect my self-esteem and how getting older and less love from my partner would make me compare myself to all the younger women I would suddenly be more aware of. Who could probably easily take my husband away if they wanted to.
And it’s true.
Even now, as I look at myself in the mirror, I see nothing but a girl with bags under her eyes and a bird’s nest of tangled hair sloppily dressed in a cute nightgown that looks anything but cute and flattering on me.