Healing Fires

We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin. There was an uncomfortable silence between us that made the air just a little bit colder with every breath. Oliver kept his eyes forward, his mouth a thin straight line. He hated driving in the snow. I offered to drive and received some sort of snort as an answer as he got into the driver seat anyway ignoring me.

The cabin looked like something out of a magazine. It was two floors with a small covered balcony. The black roof slanted in the perfect angle. Sharp enough for the snow to roll off but not enough to avoid a light dusting as the snow fell silently.

Inside was even more breath taking. Oliver grunted as he bought the bags inside and looked everything less than impressed heading upstairs to the room. It was an open floor plan with grey wood planks. The living room has a large fireplace surrounded by beige couches and blankets that looked like they were the world’s most comfy.

I hated that Oliver and I were in this space. It took me a long time to understand that this spiral was my fault. Trying for our baby had taking a toll on me, taking a toll on us. I wanted our family so bad, it had taking over every part of me. Everything I read, every thought, every second I was obsessed. Month after month of disappointment, 2 miscarriages and two years of marriage later; not to mention my breakdowns, tears, blaming him for not being into me enough. Blaming him every argument, no matter how small. “If you wouldn’t stress me out I’d be pregnant…”. He was tired like I was tired, but never showed it. He held me with every tear. He held me every breakdown. He stood silent while I yelled at him, blamed him, made him feel less then. It was my fault that I wrapped myself so far into my suffering I didn’t see he was suffering too. He needed mental health care, and a hug, and to be held. He needed to cry. Through all my tears he held his. My Oliver.

By the time he came back downstairs, I had the fire roaring. I poured us both a healthy glass of Clover Farms Tawny Port wine. Oliver flopped on the couch and rubbed his forehead. He kicked off his boots and sat back sighing. Exhausted.

I placed the wine in front of him and sat next to him on the couch. We locked eyes with each other and I gave him a slight smile. He exhaled and gave me the same slight smile.

“Oliver?” I whispered.

“Yes baby?” Still so sweet.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re fine baby. No need to be sorry.”

“No Oliver…” My eyes began to fill, I reached deep to stop the tears. It wasn’t my time to cry. “It’s not your fault, it was never your fault. I never gave you a break, I never let you grieve. You took my yelling, my screaming, and you still planned this whole get away to help me relax. Baby, it’s your turn. Talk to me. Let me be your diary. Let me be who you’ve been to me this whole time…”

Oliver rubbed his face uneasy. There was a confused but softening look in his eyes.

That’s when it happened. His eyes began to water and the tears fell as silently as the snow outside. He hugged me so tight and cried out his exhaustion, his stress, his pain and his love. He didn’t have to say a word and I understood everything clearly.

By the fireside we held each other and healed. The warmth embraced our relationship, melting us back together.