i did not know i was allowed to miss myself
last night, i stood in the bathroom after everyone had fallen asleep and stared at my face longer than i meant to.
there was toothpaste drying near the corner of the sink. one of the towels had been left on the floor. from the bedroom, i could hear my wife breathing, and every few minutes our daughter moved beneath the sheets in the next room. the whole house was full of people i loved. still, when i looked in the mirror, i had the strange feeling that someone was missing.
i think it was me.
there is always something that needs carrying, so i carry it.
by now, this version of me has become good at being dependable. i learned which cry meant our daughter was frightened and which meant she was fighting sleep, or simply wanted my attention. i learned how my wife takes her coffee on the mornings when she has barely rested. i know what is running out in the kitchen, what payment is coming next, and which light has to stay on in the hallway.
i know how to take care of this life.
somewhere along the way, i stopped knowing how to find myself.
there was a version of me who used to want things without first asking. he could waste an afternoon, sleeping. he listened to entire albums instead of whatever song could fit between one task and the next. he could leave the house with nothing in his pockets but his keys and return after dark without feeling that he had abandoned anyone. he could eat scraps for dinner from lunch leftovers, and he would not mind.
i remember him, but only in pieces.
this is difficult to admit because i love being a husband. i love being a father. i chose this home, and i would choose the people in it again. that is what makes the homesickness feel so ungrateful.
what kind of man looks at the life he prayed for and still feels an ache he cannot name?
so i keep it to myself.
when my wife asks if i am tired, i say yes because tiredness is easier to explain. tiredness can be fixed with an early night or a quieter weekend.
i cannot tell her that rest is not what i am missing.
i cannot tell her that sometimes i want to be seen before i am needed.
i worry she will hear it as regret. i worry my child will someday believe they took something from me.
neither of them did.
i offered myself in small, ordinary pieces.
bit by bit, until i realize how little i have left.
there are days when i sit in the car for five minutes after arriving home because it is the only place where nobody is asking me a question. i watch the light in the living room and feel ashamed that i need to prepare myself before walking toward the people i missed all day.
then i open the door. our child runs to me. my wife looks relieved that i am home. whatever sadness followed me into the driveway learns to behave.
i become useful again.
the sadness is realizing that i have built so much of my worth around being useful that i no longer know who i am when nothing is required of me.
fatherhood makes love live in my body, but so does vigilance, and i have forgotten how to put either one down.
last week, our child asked me what i liked to do before i became a dad.
i stayed there, embarrassed by how hard the question is.
i opened my mouth and gave an answer that sounded borrowed. i said music. i said books. i named a few things as if i were describing someone i used to know at school. our child accepted this and went back to playing with her slime.
i do not want my old life back. that life had rooms of its own emptiness.
i do not want to trade bedtime stories, unfinished cups of coffee, or my wife's feet finding mine beneath the blanket for the freedom i once had.
tonight, after everyone went to bed, i played one of those old albums in the kitchen. i kept the volume low. there were dishes waiting in the sink, but for once i left them there. i sat at the table until the final song ended.
nothing in the house fell apart.
when i passed the bathroom, i did not turn on the light. i could see my reflection faintly in the dark mirror, no longer clear enough to inspect, but still there.