The wife’s secret place

I love my husband.  I do.  And I love my son.  He means everything to me.  But sometimes I think I am a bad wife and mother.  I leave.  On purpose.  Very pre-meditated.  I tell my husband that I made plans with girlfriends, I kiss my snuggly son goodbye and I go away.

I never go far.  But I always go somewhere new.  And just far enough that my husband won’t run into me if he’s doing errands.  It would be too hard to explain myself.  I am not running away to meet up with a lover.  Although if anyone knew what I did, they probably would think that anyway; that I am skipping off to some seedy motel to meet up with a colleague or a friend’s husband for some physical fun and to escape my problems.  But that’s not where I go.

I go wherever I end up.  Sometimes a mall, sometimes a tiny out-of-the-way bookstore, sometimes a deserted beach.  But I guess I lied.  I do meet up with someone at my rendez-vous.  I meet up with myself.  I run away to a quiet place where I can be alone with my thoughts.  Where I can take a minute to breathe deeply.

Wherever I end up, there isn’t someone asking me where his clean underwear are (in the drawer where they always are).  Or a baby who wakes up in the night, screaming, seemingly for no reason (what can I do to help?  Nothing is working.  I just want to help).  Wherever I end up is quiet.  Everything is still around me but my thoughts.  Even if I end up amongst bustling shoppers with their own precious loads, or at a park with children running and laughing.  My own daily duties are silent.

I am anonymous.  I answer to no one and no one expects answers from me.  I’ve dropped off into nowhere.

And after awhile – the amount of time I am gone depends on just me – I return.  To my home.  Where, really, I don’t have that many problems in the grand scheme of things.  To my husband who is happy to have me back and to my son’s thrilled face and outstretched arms.  And I am happy.  I really am.

But I will never give away my secret place.