The Way We Feel

Chapter 8

"Ow, ow, damn it!" Mads had screeched after a quiet thump sounded from the bathroom followed by the sound of the laundry basket hitting the floor with a smack.

It was wrong what I'd felt in that moment. If it hadn't been five-thirty in the morning, if I'd had a night of uninterrupted sleep for once, if I wasn't so fucking tired, I would've immediately been worried. Concerned by the sound that was so clearly pained.

Instead, for that first second, all I'd felt was nonsensical annoyance that she'd hurt herself.

Just as quickly as it had come on, though, the annoyance disappeared and made way for the concern, for the fear as I'd glanced over, and alarm filled me as Lila began to wail in my arms—also startled by the sound. "What is it? What happened?"

Mads was leaning against the doorframe leading into the bathroom, one leg hiked up so that she could clutch her toes. Her brow was wrinkled up in pain.

"Shit," she breathed as I stood. And when I made my way over to her, ready to ask what had happened again, even though in some part of my mind, I'd already grasped that she'd likely stubbed her toe, she looked up.

There were tears in her eyes.

"It's nothing," she said, the words clipped, her voice tight with—anger. "I'm fine."

She leaned down and grabbed the laundry basket, and hobbled a few steps, pushing past me as she said, "And for God's sake, make sure everything makes it into the laundry basket next time, would you? It shouldn't be that hard."

Her annoyance washed over me in waves, making realization come more slowly than it should've. But when it did, I couldn't believe it. She was mad at me?

"What didn't I put in the basket?" I asked, rocking a squirming, still-crying Lila as best I could as I recalled last night—undressing in the bathroom, tossing my dirty clothes into the basket before stepping into the shower...

Mads was almost to the door, still hobbling, and she didn't turn around as she replied, "If I have to pick up one more of your stupid socks because you can't manage to get them both into the laundry basket, I'm gonna scream."

Shocked. That was the only word for what I was feeling. The vitriol...

But "shocked had quickly turned into defensive".

And she'd disappeared into the hallway before I could reply.

So, I followed her.

"I apologize if I'm exhausted when I get home and miss a fucking sock here or there," I exclaimed, growing more frustrated, more annoyed by the moment. Lila's screams weren't helping.

I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that patience was necessary here. I knew that I should've been more understanding. I knew that I should've tried to placate my wife instead of provoking her further. But for whatever reason, I was seeing red, and the last thing I wanted to do was let her talk to me like I was some deadbeat husband who couldn't even manage to pick up after himself.

It was only a fucking sock, after all.

But I wasn't the only one looking for a fight. Mads glared at me from the top of the stairs. "How hard is it to just look down at the floor after you take your clothes off, hm?"

"I can barely keep my eyes open when I get home, Mads! We're lucky I even get as far as to change!"

"And I'm not tired?" she fired back, her voice high and squeaky and angry all at once. "It's not absolutely exhausting to take care of her and have to pick up after you, too?"