I spontaneously took a day off to clean the attic, but then my husband came home early. He had no idea I was there. When I heard him speaking to someone through our bedroom door, I learned something about my husband that was worse than cheating.
If you had asked me last Monday how my life was going, I would have given you the standard “tired but happy” routine. But everything fell apart the day I randomly took a day off work to clean the attic.
Every time I took something up there, I’d scan the boxes and tell myself I’d clean up and organize everything that weekend.
Five years’ worth of weekends had come and gone, and I’d decided I couldn’t put it off any longer.
I randomly took a day off work to clean the attic.
The kids, Emma and Caleb, were safe at my mom’s for a sleepover.
My husband, Grant, was locked into a marathon of corporate meetings. At least, that was the schedule on the fridge.
The house felt oversized without the sound of sneakers hitting the hardwood or the constant hum of the television.
I climbed the pull-down ladder into the attic. It smelled like aging cardboard and dry heat. I started dragging boxes toward the center of the room.
The kids, Emma and Caleb, were safe at my mom’s for a sleepover.
There were boxes labeled “COLLEGE,” “XMAS,” and my personal favorite, “DON’T OPEN.”
Naturally, I opened the Christmas box first.
I’m a sucker for the holidays, even in the middle of a random Tuesday.
Right near the top, nestled under a chaotic web of green tangled lights, was a clay star. Emma’s first ornament!
I ran my thumb over the rough edges. I could see that night so clearly. Emma was three, her tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in total concentration.
“Careful,” I’d told her, reaching out to steady her wrist before she smeared the wet gold paint.
I ran my thumb over the rough edges.
Grant had been sitting at the kitchen table with us.
“Babe, look,” I’d said, nudging him. “She made it herself.”
He glanced our way and gave a quick smile. “That’s great, Em. Really artistic.”
Then his eyes snapped back to the spreadsheets.
“Daddy, it’s sparkly,” Emma held it out toward his keyboard.
“Mm-hmm. I see it, sweetie. Just don’t get it on Daddy’s laptop, okay?”
I wrapped the star in tissue paper now, feeling a weird weight in my chest that had nothing to do with the attic’s lack of ventilation.
His eyes snapped back to the spreadsheets.
I moved to the next box.
Baby clothes! I pulled out a tiny blue onesie with yellow ducks marching across the chest. It was Caleb’s.
I pressed the cotton against my nose, but it didn’t smell like baby anymore.
Under the onesie was a photo album with a sticky plastic cover. I flipped it open to the first page.
There I was in a hospital bed, hair matted, holding a red-faced, furious Emma. Grant stood beside the bed, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder.
He was smiling for the camera. He looked proud, but memories aren’t photos, are they? They’re the gaps between the frames.
Under the onesie was a photo album.
When I closed my eyes, I didn’t see him holding her. I saw him hovering two feet away from the bassinet like it might bite him.
“I’m afraid I’ll drop her,” he’d whispered whenever she started to squirm.
“You won’t. She’s sturdier than she looks.”
He’d hold her for maybe 30 seconds before her first whimper, then he’d perform a lightning-fast hand-off.
“See? She wants her mom. I’m just the backup singer.”
I turned the page in the album.
He’d perform a lightning-fast hand-off.
There was Caleb, dressed as a tree for his kindergarten play.
Grant had texted me 15 minutes before the curtain went up. Running late. Save me a spot.
I watched the door the whole time. He slipped into the darkened gym during the last song, his silhouette brief against the hallway light.
“Where have you been?” I whispered.
“Traffic was a nightmare.”
Afterward, Caleb had run up to him.
He slipped into the darkened gym during the last song.
He tugged hard on Grant’s suit sleeve. “Did you see me, Dad? I was the tallest oak!”
Grant crouched down. “Of course, buddy. You were the star of the forest.”
“What was my line? Did you hear it?”
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