"Don't sit on that chair!" I exclaimed, my voice rising in frustration as I caught sight of my five-year-old. He was transfixed by his red toy car, twisting it back and forth in his tiny hands. The plastic wheels screeched against the floor, sending a jolt of annoyance through me. Without a word, he stood up, his gaze fixed on the ground as he quietly retreated to his room, the innocence of his actions contrasting sharply with my growing unease.

 

As I watched him go, a wave of reflection washed over me—I pondered how it seemed so easy for men to move on while women appeared to linger in the past. It wasn't about my son sitting in that chair that troubled me; it was the relentless grip of memories that clung to the spaces he left behind each time he ventured out, reminding me of what once was.

 

Our day began long before the first light of dawn broke across the horizon. Around 3 a.m., I would feel him tossing and turning beside me, restless in the stillness of the night. He didn't have to do much; with the clock snoozed, I would know that it was time. I would turn to give him a smile and a quiet intensity building around us. Soon, he would take me up, and I would feel him pressing against me, the warmth of his body pushing through the barrier of the blankets which held us. At that very moment, I wish he knew that he never had to exert a lot of effort; I was his, and there was no ever changing that.

 

I had always heard that the man possessed an uncanny ability to sense when someone was his, as though he could feel how a body responded to his presence. I never dared to ask him if he felt my body come alive in his proximity, yet I could sense it deep in my belly every time he drew near. I had been told some moments were meant to be savoured, so I surrendered myself to the experience.

 

With deliberate slowness, he would rise from atop me, planting a tender kiss on my cheek before surrendering to sleep. I remained silent, aware that he preferred it that way—his presence commanded an unspoken hush. I understood that I needn't press him for conversation; he would unfurl his chosen topics when the time felt right.

 

The moment he jumped out of bed, I quickly followed, making our matrimonial bed. With him in mind, I pressed down on his side, ensuring that no speck of dirt remained by running my hands along the corners and edges.

 

When he silently walked out in the morning and never returned at dusk, I remembered myself as the proud woman who never forgot him. I was the one who never let another man into my home, believing a woman was meant to have just one man in her life. Even after he passed, I would mourn but could never bring myself to love another.

 

But no one talked about our fate. When my man grew tired of me and chose someone else, did he realise I would always desire him? He was alive, yet he took away my power to ever be loved. Perhaps it was easier for those who passed away; at least they left no questions about whether they were enough. They were gone, and that was it.

 

Each morning, I tidied the house and cleaned the rugs and floors, telling myself that if I didn't, he would return to find everything in disarray. He had made his own rules from the very first day we met. I knew he expected me to keep the home in order while he brought in the bread. I was his unspoken figure, perfecting the space where others had failed him while he maintained control.

 

I searched for him, twelve months on, but no one had seen or heard from him. His silence had cloaked him invisibly, but he wasn't finished with me. Five years later, he returned just as I had grown used to sleeping in a cold bed, but now another woman occupied his heart. No one would judge me for allowing a man who once shared my life back into my home.

 

That night, I grappled with what I had desired most: the truth. It freed the teller but enslaved the listener. What was I supposed to do with everything he had just told me? Was I, the woman who met his silence with my own, not loud enough for him? I couldn't be the one who spit on him; I had to save his face. Nothing made sense; I, who constantly fulfilled his desires without ever needing anything he didn't willingly give, was the one left for one who asked him more. I, who had been groomed to support him, was nothing special. Did he think he could move on, leaving me with only the burden of waiting?

 

My heart drifted to the other room, feeling heavy and ungrounded. The loud snore rumbled! I turned to look at the man who laid uninvited but wanted on the side of the bed shyly smiling, as I raised my head up a searching rung in my mind, am I ready to let the man whose sharp snores pierce the quiet of the early night to claim the title of "man of the house"?

~ "The Truth, FREED THE TELLER AND JAILED THE LISTENER"