Two Lines
Two lines. Two clear lines. Two lines that would change her life forever. Just two lines. Two lines that changed everything. Two lines that ruined everything. Two lines that made her life no longer her own. Two lines that meant she had to share a part of her life. With him. Forever. Two lines that meant she had to share everything. Forever. She didn’t like to share. Two lines. Two clear lines. Positive. Pregnant. He was happy. She was not. This was everything he wanted. This was everything she did not.
How. How had this happened. Obviously she knew how it had happened. And when. There hadn’t exactly been many occasions it could have been. It didn’t exactly require narrowing down. Just the one time. Recently. So how had she let this happen. Just her luck. She was so close to being rid of him. They had been on the verge of ending things. Walking away. Officially. For good. It had been dead for so long already. They couldn’t stand each other really. Someone had had to call time. And finally they did. Mutually. To her surprise. She was a catch. He should have fought harder. Then it had been his birthday. Wine was involved. A sense of relief and freedom between them. Both relaxed. It had just happened. He had initiated it but she had wanted it too. In the moment. For that moment. If she was honest. It had been so long. She had needed it. And so she had responded. Carelessly. And now here he would be. In some way, shape or form. Forever. She didn’t know who she was more angry with. Him. Or herself. No definitely him. It was his fault. It was always his fault. She was in a rage. The look of happiness and optimism on his face had just angered her even more. His expression of delight when he saw those two lines infuriated her. Not the correct response. As per usual. Always getting things wrong. Never seeing things the right way. Her way. She saw this as a problem. He saw this as a chance. A chance at family. Something he had always wanted. Something he knew she never wanted. He saw a chance at a happily ever after, with her. She saw a life sentence, with him. He had done this on purpose. To trap her. To keep her. She was a catch and she had been caught. She would never forgive him. She would have to make him pay.
She was ambitious. He was successful. She was lazy and entitled. He was talented and hard working. He had already achieved what she wanted. Therefore she didn’t have to try. This suited her fine. She took all the credit, naturally. She had notions and talked a great game, loudly. He was humble and refined. She said a lot and did very little. He said little and did a lot. She gave him a hard time. Consistently. He accepted it. Religiously. She believed she was the great woman behind this average man. In reality, she was the not so great woman behind this far from average man. His success was because of her. She was unknown. He had a name. Without her he was nothing. With her, she still saw him as nothing, and treated him so. He provided her with a comfortable lifestyle. She provided him with an uncomfortable one. He had his own business. She never minded hers. He created a job for her. A made up managerial role that paid her a significant salary for very basic skills and minimal input. She was basic with maximum output. He triumphed. She reaped the rewards. She was better than him. She always had been. She was of good stock. Of nobility and class. Apparently. According to the gospel of herself.
The pregnancy was difficult. So was she. He tried his best. It wasn’t good enough. For her. It never had been. It never would be. Even so, with every day his excitement and elation grew. So did her resentment. Like his sprog inside her, it developed and became stronger each day, each week. He wasn’t satisfied with just ruining her life, he also had to ruin her body. And enjoy it. Such a ‘magical’ time. Magically torturous. He had no idea. But he would. Eventually. His life would be ruined too. She would make sure of it. Then she would watch him suffer. And enjoy it. This was her only source of comfort. The only thing getting her through this painful, uncomfortable, humiliating process. Her body was no longer her own. It had been invaded by a parasite. His parasite. Draining her of every last sense of self she had. Leaving behind a fat, tired, continuously nauseous shadow of a host. Nothing had changed for him. Other than a new found optimistic sense of purpose to his being. An added spring to his step. Eyes bright. Smile wide. Sickening. It made her nearly as nauseous as the hormones. He fussed around her like she was made of glass. So irritating. So unsupportive. This was happening to her. But he made it about him. He wouldn’t leave her alone. She had to do everything herself. No help. No understanding. No space. From him. He was always there. In the way. In her way. Smothered. Working all hours. Making himself feel important. She was what was important. He never helped.
His baby arrived. She couldn’t take to it. He could. But she didn’t let him. He never helped. He did everything wrong. He hadn’t read the books. He was eager and overjoyed. By everything. She was sore and miserable. About everything. He kept his life. Kept his career that she had made for him. She became a human cow, self milking for a tiny ungrateful, insatiable person, who made demands of her night, noon and morning. Demands she met, just about. Demands she met with distain and contempt. Demands she met against her will. Demands she met for one purpose. This was not what she wanted. At all. But she knew it was what he wanted. So, she would not let him have it. She refused. She would keep his baby close to her and distant from him. Give him just enough to taste fatherhood, then take it all away. Let him yearn from a far and blame himself for not doing more. She would blame him also. As would the child, in time. She would mould and manipulate. Their relationship would be strained, eternally. She would be the martyr mother fantastic. He would be the lousy dad who never did enough. He would protest. Nobody would believe him. Everyone would take her side. Sure she was the woman. And she was a mother.
She found motherhood demeaning. She was made for more than this. Made for better things. She was meant for a life of success, grandeur and opulence. Not baby vomit, fifty shades of poo and a saggy ‘mummy pouch’ she had to tuck into her jeans. Motherhood was meant to be the most natural thing a woman can do. Biologically, it’s what she was built for. Her main purpose in life according to mother nature. Reproduction. How depressing. How degrading. How insulting. How prehistoric. Surely women had come further than this. Physically she had met natures expectations. She was a walking fruit bearing womb. For her, that’s all the experience was. Physical. Her instincts were a miss. It was not magically rewarding and fulfilling, but instead was completely foreign, alien and obtuse. She was not rewarded, only penalised. She pretended to be a good mother to make him look bad, which provided some enjoyment and satisfaction. But, other than that, she had no desire to be a caregiver to this tiny stranger. She kept it alive out of obligation and spite, but not love. She had house plants she was more connected to. If she was honest, she enjoyed their company more. She internalised her resentment for them both, him and his offspring, while externally portraying herself as selfless mother extraordinaire, sacrificing herself for the greater good of her child because he couldn’t bring himself to do the same. Woe was her. She reveled in the delight that people believed her and judged him. It was actually quite enjoyable for her to watch, the parody that had become her life. The comedy of it all gave her an inner smile and a sense of warm satisfaction. She was powerful and in control. He was no match for her now, not that he ever had been. But now, now, she was a mother, and who would ever question a mother’s love.
She played the role of doting parent and devoted mother beautifully. The added air of dejected exhaustion from ‘doing it all herself’ sealed the deal as an oscar winning performance to anyone who would listen. The look of sympathy in the eyes of her audience combined with their gentle head shaking and near inaudible tutting, meant the desired effect had been achieved. Poor her. Terrible him. This is how the child would see it in the future also. She would ensure it. Team Mummy. Bad Daddy. The illusion was that everything she did was in her child’s best interests. Naturally. The reality was she had decided, long before, that his child’s happiness would be sacrificed in order to make him suffer. A child’s mind is easily warped when done often enough and in the right tone. Like planting a seed then nourishing it to promote growth. Inception. His child may suffer too of course, in the long run, but she considered that to be collateral damage. Unfortunate maybe but necessary. If ‘it’ ended up in therapy in years to come that would be his fault too. He would be to blame. For everything. She would make sure he paid for that too. Both figuratively and literally. She had it all planned. All mapped out. She would let him stay just long enough to get properly attached, a few years should do it. Another sacrifice she would have to make. But she could tolerate him for the cause. She was a soldier. Nobody won a war over night. She was in it for the long haul. She would keep him close, like the enemy he was while still keeping him at arms length. Consistently criticise and beat him down like a dog. Wear him away gradually. Let them both see that he could do nothing right. That he couldn’t be a good Dad. Keep demanding more of him but refusing to let him do it. Just enough years to establish his character as the kind of man she wanted his child to see, before one day just taking it all away. Then just let him go. Give him his mutual separation that he wanted so badly. He would miss her. He would want to come back. He’d never do better. She would keep their house, keep his child, keep her control. He would choose to walk out on them and leave. He would choose to abandon them. That would be her truth. No one would question. Everyone would believe. Especially his child. Sure she was the mother after all, and who could question a mother and her love.
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