Echoes of Regret Page #5

• Drama

								


The dinner ended with a flurry of goodbyes and congratulations. June hugged everyone tightly, her radiant smile never faltering. I shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and endured a few more of Bree and Sara’s pointed looks. I embraced Glory. Brian clapped me on the shoulder one last time, his eyes searching mine for a reassurance I couldn’t give.

“Take care,” he said, his voice filled with unspoken concern.

“You too, Brian,” I replied, forcing another smile.

As we walked to the car, June chatted animatedly about the evening, her excitement unbroken by my simmering frustration. I nodded along, the words blurring together as my mind raced. We reached the car, and I held the door open for her, the gesture automatic, almost mechanical. She slid into the passenger seat, her enthusiasm dimming slightly as she noticed my silence.

The engine roared to life, and we pulled out of the parking lot. The bright lights of the restaurant faded into the distance, replaced by the dim glow of streetlights and the quiet hum of the city at night. The festive atmosphere of the evening felt miles away, replaced by the heavy, suffocating quiet of our unspoken tensions.

The drive home was silent at first, the whir of the engine the only sound filling the car. I kept my eyes on the road, my grip on the steering wheel tightening with each passing minute. June stared out the window, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her dress. We both knew it was only a matter of time before the dam broke.

“Why do Bree and Sara always have to stick their noses into our business?” I finally snapped, my voice louder than I intended.

June turned to look at me, her eyes wide with surprise. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean,” I retorted, my tone sharper. “The whispers, the glances—they act like I’m the villain in our story.”

“They’re just concerned, Warren,” June said softly. “They care about me.”

“And I don’t?” I shot back, my temper flaring. “Do they even know what it’s like to live with you? To come home to a mess every day, to handle everything because you forget the simplest things?”

June’s face flushed with hurt, and she looked away. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair?” I scoffed. “What’s not fair is them painting me as the bad guy when they have no idea what our life is really like.”

“They just want to help,” June whispered, tears welling in her eyes.

I slammed my fist against the steering wheel, the car swerving slightly. “Help? They don’t help, June. They make things worse. They make you feel like a victim and me like a monster.”

June’s tears spilled over, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. “I never asked them to do that. I just want us to be happy.”

“Happy?” I echoed, shaking my head, my voice breaking. How could we be happy when I felt like I was drowning? When every day was a struggle to keep my head above water?

The car fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of my words hanging heavy in the air. I glanced over at June, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Guilt gnawed at my insides, but I couldn’t bring myself to apologize, her tears felt like a full blown manipulation. 

It’s often difficult to live up to our own expectations. This, at times, can lead to us forcing our expectations on others. When it comes to a rocky marriage it’s important to note what is being said and what is not. 


Year 6

There is a destructive power in unaddressed resentments, like that of a hurricane. You may sense the storm coming but is anyone ever fully prepared for the consequences of the impact?

I laid in bed after waking up to the sounds of June getting ready for the day—the shower running, followed by the whoosh of her hair dryer. I sat up, and rubbed my stubbled face, still rough from days of neglect, as I watched June primp in the mirror. 
She wore a 3-piece, black, pin-striped, suit with a pencil skirt. With her shoulders back and neck long she looked at the finished product, and smiled at her reflection. That smile that used to lift me up. Now it only made the weight on my shoulders feel heavier, as if she was carrying the sun and I was left with the shadow.

She looked at the door when 5-month old Brenden cried, letting the world know he’d awakened, then turned and looked back to see if he’d woken me. 

Seeing that I was already awake, she walked over to me with a warm expression, “Good morning honey. I’ll go grab Brenden and Heather and get them ready for Glory.” She offered, before leaning down to lightly press her soft plump freshly glossed lips to my dry cracked mouth. I thought to myself “What’s so good about it?” I bit my tongue and instead I grumbled a thanks and muttered a half-hearted 'morning' in return.

She bounced out of our bedroom, light on her feet, making me feel as though the weight of the world was resting solely on my weakening shoulders. I stood up, feeling stiff, and shuffled to the bathroom.

When I turned on the shower, a burst of lukewarm water hit my hand. I waited, hoping it would warm up, but it remained tepid, just on the edge of comfort. I let out a breath, feeling the irritation rise but swallowing it back down. The steam should have been filling the room by now, but instead, I was left with nothing but the lingering scent of her floral shampoo. As I stepped in, the water barely offered any relief, just a weak  attempt to wake me up. I leaned my head against the cool tile, the water dribbling down my neck, and couldn’t help but think how she’d used up all the heat, leaving me with just the remnants.

After a brief unsatisfying shower, I tossed on a black tshirt and my oil stained jeans, yanking a few straggling threads off the bottom cuffs. I yanked on my dirty brown steel toed boots. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my shabby reflection staring back at me. My gaze drifted to the open closet, where my dusty suit hung untouched. The scent of mothballs and failure hit me, making my jaw clench. 

After a disappointing start to the day, I made my way to the factory, where I worked. I entered the warehouse feeling uninspired. I pulled out my punch card from the metal slot on the wall and slid it into the time clock.

I met Brian in the break room, where it felt unusually cold. I had been incredibly grateful when he helped me get hired, but everyday I ran into him, wearing his pristine freshly starched collared shirt and pressed slacks, it only served as a sullen reminder of the man I was just a few years ago. That I had fallen so far from grace. 

“Hey!” Brian’s face lit up when he saw me. “Good Morning! You're looking a bit rough this morning, long night with Brenden?”  He asked with a hint of concern. 

Brian wouldn’t understand the exhaustion of juggling everything—work, kids, a failing marriage. He was single, made an excellent income, everything came easy for him.

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