The Quiet Between Us

It’s quiet in the house again. Quieter than it used to be. With my husband, Marty, traveling for work, the silence has taken on a strange weight—louder, I guess. At first, it was unsettling. Marty has always been the sound of the family: the chatter, the laughter, the constant hum of life. I was often the quieter presence, the observer on the sidelines, though I’m not entirely sure he’d agree with that version of the story.

Marty and I have been together for nearly twenty years, and I always secretly loved that about him—the way he made noise. He had a gift for building energy around us: singing in the shower, dreaming up fun projects we could all jump into, pulling us into spontaneous adventures, or settling us in for movie and game nights. He was safe and lighthearted, easygoing in a way that made life feel lighter just by being near him.

And yet, deep down beneath the surface, there was always this thing between us, a distance that lingered no matter how close we stood. I guess, over time, that distance started making noise of its own. The more I needed him, the more he seemed to pull back. And then came the travel.

I was so angry with him for leaving our family. It stirred something ancient in me, it was an old wound I thought I had outgrown, conquered, locked safely away, buried in childhood memories that didn’t need to be awoken. I couldn’t believe he would leave, abandon me, abandon us, especially now, at a time when we needed him most.

It didn’t matter that he said the travel was to support our family financially—the hurt was already there. And if I’m being honest, while the money helped, it was never enough. That was the reason he left on the surface, anyway. Underneath it, I think he wanted to run. To escape the weight of it all: living with my parents in a house we couldn’t afford to fix, a wife deep in postpartum, a son who needed hard advice and guidance, and a daughter who needed love and constant attention. It was a pile of bricks on his chest, and instead of staying and lifting them together, he chose to leave.

Once he left, life changed drastically. Almost overnight, we went from game nights to quiet, from adventure to isolation, from laughter to anger and explosive arguments. And here we are still, trapped in the same routine: he leaves and the house goes quiet; he comes home and there is rage, followed by silence. But this silence, isn’t the quiet kind, it’s loud and constantly begging for attention, to be reached.

Although the routine has remained unchanged, some things have shifted. I used to feel desperate for him to stay, terrified of his leaving. The nausea would settle deep in my gut, my blood would burn, my thoughts would spiral every time he walked out the door. But sometime recently, that noise went silent. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders, from my heart, and I could finally think again. Not trapped by the past or tangled in the present, but looking toward the future and what it might hold; not just for me, but for my kids too.

So what does that mean for Marty and me? Am I returning to a healthier version of myself, the one who can remain whole alongside my husband, forgiving the time we’ve lost and the words we can’t take back? Or am I learning an entirely new version of myself, one who is independent from him, alone but hopeful, steady and strong?

I don’t know the answer yet. But I do know this: I’m ready to find out.