My Husband, the Stranger

*Anna*

I take a few steps backward–and bump into one of Grandmother Trudy’s priceless vases. The stand tips, wobbles, and the vase teeters on the edge, but my quick, athletic husband reaches out a hand and catches it before it can slip and fall on the marble floor.

“Thank you,” I stutter, moving away from the stand before I have another accident. “You’re so… fast.”

My own husband, Grant, whom I’ve been married to for almost two years briefly glances in my direction, nods, and then walks around me to go down the hallway, giving me a wide berth–like maybe I have some kind of disease.

I let out a sigh, hoping he’s walking briskly enough that he’s out of earshot by now. I drop my head into my hands and stand there for a moment. I’m such a failure. Even my own husband thinks I am worthless.

“Are you all right, Anna?”

I hear the kindest voice I know and immediately perk up. My mother is coming down the hallway toward me, her eyes slightly narrowed in concern. She has the prettiest face, and I’m so glad she lives in a little house behind the mansion, and I get to see her all the time. In fact, that’s the house I grew up in.

Sometimes, I wish I could just go stay with her, but she worked very hard to convince Fred, Grant’s father, to agree to a match between Grant and I. His mother, Mary, was happy with the idea from the very beginning, but not Grant. No, Mother put in many hours of hard work to get him to finally approve.

If only Grant would approve.

“I’m fine, Mother,” I tell her, managing a smile. “It’s just been a long day.”

She tips her head to the side, and I know she’s not buying it. When she reaches me, she takes both of my hands in hers. “Is someone giving you a hard time again, sweetheart?”

I think back over my day–how it started off with Grandmother Trudy berating me for not putting enough creamer in her coffee, how Hattie and Scott’s children, Veronica and Charlie, put peanut butter in my chair, so when I sat down to eat lunch, I ended up with a sticky brown mess all over my backside, and then there was the incident with Hattie about the mustard stain.

And Grant–my own husband can’t stand to speak to me.

I take a deep breath and manage a smile. “No, Mother. Everything is just fine.”

One perfectly sculpted eyebrow raises ever so slightly above a brown eye that looks so much like my own, when I stare closely enough, I think I’m looking into a mirror. “Well, I know you don’t like to cause trouble, dear, but if someone is bothering you again–”

“No, Mother,” I repeat. “It’s fine. I’m just going to go sit on the back patio for a spell and breathe in the fresh air.”

“All right, dear. Have fun.” She taps her cheek expectantly, and I lean down to give her a kiss. “I’m off to visit with Mary.”

“Have a nice conversation.” I pat her on the shoulder and continue down the hallway. But I’m not going to sit outside on the patio and relax. No, the moment I even consider doing such a thing, I’d be bombarded with all sorts of angry scowls and accusations of being “lazy.” Instead, I wait for Mother to go on down the hall to the next corner where she’ll go up the stairs to the floor where Mary and Fred’s rooms are. Then, I turn and go back down the hallway Grant went down only a few minutes ago. He’s probably in his grandmother’s office or his own, so I can go to our room for a bit and be unbothered. Most of the time, I can get away with spending a few minutes alone this time of day when everyone is getting home from their business meetings and too wrapped up in their own days to need me to do anything for them.

I slip inside our room and shut the door, leaning against it for a moment, taking a deep breath. My eyes take in the large bed in the center of the room, and my stomach twists in a knot. I don’t sleep there. I have my own bed–a pull out couch on the other side of the room. Grant initially said he would sleep there, but I insisted he take the bed. This is the house he grew up in, the room he grew up in, and I wouldn’t take his bed from him the way I stole his freedom. He married me because his parents wanted him to, not because he has ever been attracted to me. To him, I’m just the little girl who grew up in his backyard, the daughter of a woman who got pregnant out of wedlock and never had the support of a husband to help take care of me, so that fell on his parents. He’s never said he resents me because of it, but I know he does.

When the bathroom door opens, and my husband walks out, slipping a T-shirt over his head, I let out a little gasp. It’s not as if I’ve never seen his perfectly sculpted abs before. I’ve gotten a peek now and again, but he’s caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting this, and I feel like I’ve intruded.

He’s stunned to see me, too, but he tries to pretend like he’s not. “How was your day?”

“Fine. How was yours?” I move away from the door in case he wants to escape.

“Fine, thanks.” He moves to his dresser and puts away his cufflinks. I sit on the couch I will later sleep on and look at a magazine. “Will you be joining us for dinner?” He doesn’t even look at my reflection in the mirror.

“Not tonight.” I don’t think I need to show my face around here any more this evening, if I can help it. I’ll sneak down after everyone else is finished eating and gone to their respective rooms. I’m sure the chef will keep something aside for me. She usually does on nights I can’t bear the ridicule of attending the formal family dinner.

“Well, have a good one.” My husband glides to the door, places his hand on the knob, lets his head fall for a moment, like he wants to say something more, or maybe he just regrets this entire situation. Then, he’s gone.

A single tear falls down my cheek. It’s hard to love someone and know that you’re hurting them just by existing.