Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Everything was overcooked, slightly burned.
We ate in silence.

So much had happened over the last few days. I knew my emotions were taking over everything, even my cooking. We used to enjoy these Sunday dinners, laughing and watching whatever showed up on the television first as we flipped through the channels. It was a tradition. But somehow, my confession had made our lighthearted meal an awkward encounter. I didn't really know what to say mainly because I had no idea what was going on his head. So I just picked at my more-than-crispy chicken and lifeless broccoli. Even my salad seemed to be lacking its normal crunch. Yes, in one fell swoop I had ruined our relationship and it could all be summed up in this pathetic excuse for dinner.

Not wanting to endure this torture any longer, I picked up my plate and went to the kitchen. I wasn't really all that hungry anyway. I could feel his questioning eyes following me, but I didn't feel like I owed him an explanation. He already knew how I felt. The ball was in his court. After depositing the remains of my plate into the garbage and loading the dishwasher, I decided to retreat to my room. I didn't know what else to do. I sat on the bed wishing things could have turned out differently. I wish he would have said something, anything, instead of sitting there stunned and from what I could tell, a little horrified. He made no effort to comfort me, to let me know everything was going to be OK. Instead, he turned around without a word and walked out the door. Tonight was his first night home since our talk. He didn't say much, and I didn't really feel like putting up a fight so I let it go and decided to cook dinner in an attempt to achieve some sort of normalcy. So much for that plan.

A soft knock at the door brought me out of my daze, and I looked up to see him leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed and his forehead creased. This was my indication that he was ready for to talk. I nodded, letting him know it was OK, and he sat down on the bed next to me. He took my hand in his and I stared at our joined hands. It felt good to have some sort of physical contact with him again. Even though there was so much tension between us, for some reason this small gesture comforted me, made me feel safe. I felt his head turn toward me so I lifted my own to look at him. The minute my eyes met his I knew everything would be OK, and a second later he confirmed it by squeezing my hand tightly. Then he smiled and excitedly said, "We're having a baby."

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