Living with a Stranger

There is a strange man living in my house. He eats my food, uses my bathroom, and even shares my bed.

We speak in pleasantries and he reminds me of someone I once knew but this man is different. I do not recognize him.

Some time ago I would have made love to a man who looked identical to this man, but that is now a distant memory. Passionate moments play like movie trailers in my mind as I tread through each room of my small home. I wonder whose life that was; who was it staring in the movie of my mind, the woman who had impromptu rendezvous in the kitchen and eager kisses in the hall? The man in these movies called to me, pulled at my heart. He looked so much like the strange man standing next to me, but it could not be him. I do not know this man. We certainly are not intimate.

I've tried to see if he is that man, tried to seduce him, to act as we once were, but I continue to be disappointed. He is not that man. The world continues to spin but my life stops. I'm stuck, madly, deeply in love with a man I can no longer find. I wonder if he even wants to be found.

Where did you go, my passionate husband, man of my dreams, who couldn't keep your hands off of me and had a flirtatious word always on the tip of your tongue?

Where are you my romantic knight in shining armor, bringing flowers for my table, and caring enough to put phone aside and truly see me?

Where are you my love? Why have you gone?

I've built an imaginary headstone above our bed. It reads: Our Marriage: March 23, 2019-Sometime in 2020. Cause of death, husband's fear of death by Covid-19.

Sometimes I sit and mourn at the base of it. Remembering what was.

I wonder if the strange man living with me ever wonders who I am? Folded laundry still sits on the couch from days ago and my waistline boasts of many extra calories eaten but not burned.

My wardrobe has shrunk due to my newfound pounds, so sweatpants and t-shirts have become a staple. Frizzy hair provides a constant halo even when tied up to keep it out of the sticky hands of our toddler.

My independence shattered by the walls of this house and the strange man's ever-present fear of looming disaster, I eat one more bite. I stare at the laundry couch one more day and I find escape in my beautiful daughter’s eyes.

One more night that I am discarded for duties, tv, and social media. One more night falling asleep alone, waking to his late arrival to bed, then to my early alarm of a child's cry.

One more night, but not one more day. Today I change. Today I search, not for the man I used to know but for the woman I used to be. I'm sure she has changed her clothes, has learned much in her time away, but she must still exist. She has to still exist.

My search begins within these walls. First, I check the treadmill, she used to visit it frequently. I pick up a trace of her and pick up steam. Next, I try the laundry couch, I do not find her there either, but am pleased to find more signs of her as the couch once again becomes a piece of furniture and not a giant laundry basket.

Things are looking up, with more and more signs of the woman I once was, I keep going. The kitchen counter is cluttered, I clean it with gusto, following the woman of old’s scent. I play with my daughter with more energy than I have in months.

The strange man leaves his office and watches us, always smiling at our gorgeous little girl. He is a good dad, that part of this man is not strange, it is so familiar it seems as though he could be the missing man that I long for. He passes me by without a second glance. My heart falls once more. This is still the strange man. The one who is becoming increasingly familiar.

I retreat to the restroom, chiding myself for allowing myself to hope. I look in the mirror, this is not the woman I recognize. I must get her back; I was getting so close. I return to my family and to my motherly duties as her father returns to his work. Oh, how I long for the days he left the house to work in the office. At least then I was somewhat of a novelty when he returned home and not a constant, increasingly boring, fixture.

I stand straighter, checking the clock to see how long before nap time. I will find the woman who once occupied my body. I will find her, I will become her, and I will thrive.

Nap time comes and I pull my flat iron out from its hiding place, running it through my dark hair until satisfied that I have found one more piece of the woman who was.

I wash my face, brush my teeth and search for perfume. Finding none, I settle for a sweet-smelling essential oil. The bottle is labeled "Joy" and I can only hope that is what it brings.

I glance in the mirror and take a deep breath. Clothes are next. Luckily, I do own some jeans and decent tops that fit. I put them on, fighting with the jeans and wondering why I am not a skirt wearer, they seem much more comfortable in this moment.

Clothes on, hair straightened, teeth brushed, and smelling nice, I pick my wee one up from her nap. Her smile envelopes me and I am filled with overwhelming joy. This is her; this is some of the woman of old returning.

The next day I do it all again. I am hot on the trail of her and I’m not giving up. Day after day I keep up my search.

Soon I notice the strange man has found the treadmill. He even seeks out the weights. I get an eerie feeling as if I've seen this man before. A few days later I find a few shaved whiskers on the bathroom sink and see a pile of them in the garbage can. Later that day when our daughter plays near his office, I look in and think I see the man who once was, my husband and my love. He smiles at me as I gaze upon him and a warmth grows in me. I hadn't even noticed I was cold.

As the warmth grows, I recognize the woman in the mirror more and more with each passing glance. It’s not so much that the strange man is noticing me, but that I am finally noticing him.

His shiny black sidekick, always in his hand, is being set aside at meals. And his eyes seem to hold a remarkable resemblance to the man who used to live here; in my home and in my heart.

This man who had shared my bed for but a few hours every night, begins coming in to talk to me before I sleep. He isn’t the man I had married, he is different, but he is good. Has he ever not been good? His fears have controlled him, have guided his every step and decision for this family, but has he ever not been good?

I stare at this man and try to decide which man he is. His gaze melts me, and he tenderly takes me into his embrace. Tears fall down my face and I try to sort my emotions and fight to finish my transformation back to the woman I once was.

It does not happen. It cannot happen. I am no longer her, but I am no longer the enlarged shell of a woman I have become either. I am different, I am changed, I am better.

I look up at this man, is this what is happening to him as well? Can it be that we've both grown through the struggles?

He opens his mouth to speak, but I shut him up with a kiss. He returns my gesture, then pulls away. My heart clenches, fearful of an impending dismissal; maybe I was too quick to hope.

His eyes are glassy as he says, "I'm sorry."

Tears of sadness that I had not cried, mixed with tears of joy at this newfound hope stream down my face, "So am I."