Читать книгу Single Father, Better Dad - Mark Tucker - Страница 6

“Goodnight, my love.”

Three little words.

Three tender words of love.

Three words that any man would love to hear. But these words weren’t meant for me. They were meant for someone else. Another man. These weren’t tender words of love to warm my heart these were words of betrayal, and they reached out from the sent folder of my wife’s mobile phone and formed a circle around my heart. A circle of stone cold dread.

I looked back at her—my wife, the mother of our children— sleeping peacefully in our bed, the first early rays of the new day lighting the room. She looked so normal, so innocent. It was such a familiar and comforting scene. But what was running through her head? Was she dreaming of someone else—of him? And who the bloody hell was this ‘him’ anyway?

Suddenly, my body’s defence mechanisms kicked in, a combination of shock and fear. The cold hand around my heart moved down my body to my stomach, and then to my bowels. For a moment I didn’t know whether I was going to be leaning over the toilet or sitting on it, but instead I settled on a series of dry retches and ten laps of the lounge room.

But what next? Should I wake her? What would I say? More importantly, what would she say—and did I want to hear it? This was way too big and way too threatening to think about at 7.15am on a Wednesday morning. It was better to be in denial, so I simply got dressed and went to work. It just seemed the easiest thing to do. I left the house and quietly shut the door behind me. I didn’t want to wake my wife or my daughters—as though by letting them sleep the dawn of our new reality wouldn’t break.

Was this just a road hump or a fork in the road of our life together?

“Goodnight, my love.”

Maybe those three little words were, in some cryptic way, meant for me after all. Were our days together coming to an end? Was this it?

Later that day I suggested to my wife that we meet for a cup of tea. How nice, she said—we haven’t done that for ages. I walked to our meeting place, lightheaded, struggling to control the thoughts that were tearing through my mind. People were going about their normal, ordinary business and I wanted them to stop and let me pass in silence and bow their heads. I wanted them to recognise my trauma—this wasn’t just another ordinary day for me. For me this was a day filled with foreboding.

And so we met, perhaps for the last time as a ‘normal’ couple, secret intact. Should I leave things as they were, or should I disturb the wasp’s nest? Could I cope with the consequences? I had to ask her.

My wife denied it of course, in fact she was indignant. Who? Never heard of him! What? Don’t be ridiculous!

But she couldn’t deny those three little words. Those three little words of love for one man and betrayal of another. And then confession. It was nothing, she said. It was just something meaningless, she said. She hardly knew him, she said.

But I had to go on, I had to fight my cramping stomach and ask the big questions. Are you sleeping with him? Of course not! Are you in love with him? Don’t be stupid! She made me feel guilty for questioning her loyalty. She made me feel guilty for going through her phone. She was sorry. She didn’t want to risk our family over something so trivial.

I shivered, the adrenalin started to ease, stress levels falling as the relief warmed me. I was exhausted and our conversation was exhausted, so I kissed her goodbye and said that I would see her at home. Everything was going to be okay—wasn’t it?

We spent a quiet, close, reflective evening together, and later that night we made love. But I felt detached. I felt as though there was someone else in the room. Was he watching us, or was I watching him? I looked at my wife, her eyes closed. Was she imagining I was him? Or wishing I was him? Was he going to be with us every time we made love—casting an ongoing shadow over our bedroom and our marriage?

Everything was going to be okay, I told myself. We would learn from this, I told myself. We would get back on track, I told myself. We would survive—our family would survive.

But I was wrong. Everything wasn’t going to be okay. We had made love for the last time. We wouldn’t survive. It was the last goodbye.

And that’s how it happened for me.

“Goodnight, my love.”