The Woman He Comes Home To

Most days, I measure myself
against women who seem to breathe through it —
the ones with clean counters,
warm dinners,
soft voices that never crack.

Meanwhile,
I’m burning inside the same four walls,
trying to look composed
with a baby on my hip
and a smile that feels rehearsed.

I love my husband.
God, I love him.
But he sees the worst of me —
the sharp words,
the slammed drawers,
the silence that begs to be understood
without me saying a thing.

He gets what’s left
after the world and the baby
and my guilt have eaten their share.

And I hate that.
I hate that my love
sometimes sounds like exhaustion,
that my warmth
comes in pieces,
that my laughter feels borrowed.

I tell myself it’s just a season —
that I’ll find myself again
when things settle,
when we have our own space,
when I sleep through the night,
when I stop feeling like
I’m failing at something
I was made to do.

But deep down,
I think I just miss myself.
The one who used to feel full.
The one who didn’t need to smile
to prove she was okay.