Sometimes, the challenges of relationships become catalysts for amazing realizations and self-discovery. This is the story of a woman who found her inner strength and power through adversity at home.

I cradled the clothes basket against my hip with one hand while balancing my half-empty glass of Pinot Noir in the other. Walking out of the laundry room, the smells of the evening’s tuna casserole dinner were gently replaced by the last two hours of life: wood polish, fabric softener, uncaptured dust, and the faint aroma of freshly sifted kitty litter. As I carried the day’s third load of clean laundry up the stairs and down the hallway, my bare feet felt the carpet we picked when James and I renovated this old Victorian. With each step, soft billows of thick white shag surrendered beneath my feet and squinched between my toes, and my thoughts drifted to my lack of balance. As a graphic designer by day and mommy by night, my life was divided by responsibility. Only a few comatose evening hours cuddling with reality TV afforded me any semblance of self.

Basket on the bed, I quickly sorted and folded his pants and shirts and underwear and socks in neat piles and then nestled them in their little places in the chest of drawers. Just the way he likes them, I thought. Or is it how I like them? I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that I needed a vacation. Not a “trip,” I thought. Trips are what families take, and they are filled with activities and excursions and scurrying from thing to thing as you create and photograph memories. Vacations are about quiet disconnection from the humdrum of life, where sand naturally exfoliates your skin and the sunsets catch both the sky and your passions ablaze. Maybe I should reframe, I thought. Perhaps this is my escape. The smell of clean laundry: my aromatherapy. The wine: my makeshift Mai Tai. The carpet: my sandy beach.

The clock in the hallway chimed 7:30 pm, and I gathered my psyche for the inevitable confrontation. I slowly made my way down the stairs, and I realized that I was stalling… maybe even filling with the slightest resentment. Every day for me dripped into the next; work-from-home slid into dinner and housework. But he didn’t work. Instead, he spent his evenings playing games or watching his favorite shows on television. I wanted all that for him. But the disparity between our existences shined in my eyes like a spotlight, and I found myself squinting in my feeble attempt to see both my individuality and the logic of the situation.

As I walked down the stairs and made my way to the living room, tension exuded from my pores; I dreaded the coming confrontation. My only thought: It wasn’t always like this, was it? In truth, it hadn’t been. At the start of our relationship, he was utterly dependent on me. I was his strength. His all-knowing, all-seeing mentor. His love and light. But as he grew older and gained experience, he found new confidence and actively explored life apart from me. Today, his newfound sense of independence was creating more work for me, with no sign of it slowing down. I walked into the living room and raised my voice an octave higher than usual in a vain effort to ease the blow of my bad news.

“Hey. I think it’s time, Honey.” I said. But he was ready for me, seemingly knowing what was coming.

“No!” he screamed. His glare burned into me, and I froze. I didn’t freeze because I was afraid of his anger, but rather because after chores and dinner and a full day of work in this house I used to love, I was depleted of the energy needed to fight with him tonight… again. Without a care in the world, he lowered his eyebrows, raised his cup to his lips, and, with a loud sip of disregard, turned away from me… back to the television… back to “his show.” As I walked out to regroup and avoid the conflict, I could still hear his raspy voice screaming at me, washing over me like glass rain. In the kitchen, I stared blankly out the window as calm couples with dogs walked in the crisp night air holding hands, their small talk and soft laughter mixing with the hum of the street lamps. I found myself sneering at them and then felt ashamed of my disgust. I was overwhelmed, bordering on defeat.

Continued below…

JUST PUBLISHED: Hope & Luna: A Modern Fable

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Where did I go wrong? I thought. This must be my fault. I love him so much. Doesn’t he love me? Respect me? Did I do something to deserve this? My self-deprecation and internal monologue of self-doubt were only interrupted by the vibration of my phone. My mom. My perspective. My savior. I needed to put these thoughts behind me, and she was the right person at the right time.

“Hey, Mom, one sec,” I said as I answered and walked into the living room. I grabbed the remote off the couch and turned the volume down on the TV. Making my way out of the room, I passed between him and the television, blocking his view.

“I can’t see!” he bellowed.

“I’m here, Mom,” I said into the phone as I shot him a glare. No reaction from him. Typical. Back to the kitchen so I could talk. I needed to vent and gain perspective.

“Are you okay, Love?” my mother said.

That was all it took; I lost it. The tears flowed like lava, slowly creeping down my face and landing at the corner of my mouth with the salty burn that so often accompanies frustration. But as my emotions cleared, she was there to pick up the pieces of me like she always had been. She was a cake of clarity created from a recipe of two parts experience, two parts smarts, a heap of early independence, and just the tiniest dash of fuck-off, all baked in an oven of compassion and cooled on a rack of been-there-done-that. My mother always knew what to say and when to say it—from my minor roller-skating accident in the third grade to my fear of what it meant to marry a soldier and carry the burdens of his deployments. Tonight was no different.

Twenty minutes later, after my tears of tirade turned to gratitude, it came down to one simple phrase from my amazing mother.

“You don’t have to be mean, but you do have to mean it.”

I knew she was right, but “I guess I’m afraid of his reaction,” I said. “I don’t want things to get worse.” Secretly, I already hated how I felt about myself—like a failure, unable to be as good as my mother. But mind reader that she was, she continued and gave me precisely what I needed.

“You think you’re the only one with these issues?” she asked. “I struggled for years before I finally got it right. You will, too. There is no perfect approach to any kind of relationship. Take a breath, Babe, and go set a clear, respectful boundary. And stay calm and in control.”

My brilliant mother. With my confidence bolstered and my emotions centered, we said our goodbyes on my promise to call her later. With a deep breath, I walked back into the room—time to take a chance.

“Honey? Can you—”

“No, I don’t want to!” he shrieked, spitting with indignation. This time, he didn’t even bother to look at me. He settled back into the chair and put his feet up, lazily twisting his cup in his hand and allowing the TV volume to own whatever words I might have dared to utter. He spilled some of his drink on his lap, and it dribbled down onto the chair. He didn’t even look down. More likely, he knows I will clean it up later.

Stay centered, girl, and stay in the room, I thought. Don’t escalate. Stand up for yourself. This is not a reflection of you. You can make this work.

“Honey,” I started again, gently. “I know you get mad sometimes, but—”

And he snapped. Eyes ablaze, he rose and, standing at his full height, took a slow windup and threw his cup at me. I saw its arc in slow motion, twirling off-axis, the remaining liquid writhing and weaving in the air. It landed right on target—on my stomach, the cup emptying upon impact and soaking my blouse to my skin.

And there, for the first time, I found true strength.

“Hey!” I said firmly. I wasn’t mean, but I did mean it. I was firm, authoritative, and in control.

The shock of my short outburst shown on his skin like glitter. With eyes as big as plates, he froze in place and stared at me blankly, waiting to see what I might do next. This was the first time I had raised my voice, and he looked confused… maybe even afraid. It would have been easy to follow up with an angry voice, scolding and harsh, putting him in his place. But my mother’s words rang in my ear. I continued staring at him, studying his face and his body language, asserting my newfound power with silence. As I approached the chair and knelt, he sat back as far away as possible.

“Listen,” I said firmly but lovingly. I placed my hand on his face and gently stroked his cheek. “I need to make something clear. Are you listening to me?”

He nodded. I could see on his face that he knew he had crossed the line. Now, I needed to make my point kindly and clearly.

“You can’t talk to me like that,” I said. “I’m your mom, and you are only four years old. Do you understand?”

He nodded again. The limit was set, and there was no need to hammer it home, intimidate him, or punish him. New boundaries are sometimes their own magic. I scooped him up and kissed him, and he wrapped his little arms around me. He was in shock, but our short interaction was a keystone in a new relationship with my darling son. He would learn to respect me because I was fair and worthy of respect, not because I threatened him or was mean—just like I learned with my mom. As I made the walk from the living room up to his bedroom, I found myself humming a soft lullaby. The tension in his little body slipped away, and he melted into my shoulder.

“I’m sorry I got your shirt all wet, Mommy,” he said quietly.

“I know, Honey,” I said sweetly. “How about I read you a short story after we brush your teeth?”

“Make one up, okay? About Dad?” he asked.

“Of course, Love,” I said. I smiled at my newfound strength, but I could celebrate later as I was still on the clock.

He was always excited about my improvised stories. He was simply too young to realize that, as a single mom with her husband deployed overseas, my whole life had become improv. The stories were easy. Day-to-day life, however, was something we were both learning. I hope James comes home soon. I could really use a sandy beach.

*This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to people alive or dead is purely coincidental, and none should be inferred.