Until my phone rang, it was just another typical Tuesday.
Lost in the routine commotion of work, I nearly disregarded it until I noticed the caller ID: HOME.
I felt a sudden bolt of concern. During the day, Laurel hardly ever called.
Anticipating my wife’s response, I replied. Rather, I heard Alice, my daughter, talking in a tremulous whisper.
“Daddy? Mommy went out.
My heart stopped beating.
I tightened my hold on the phone. “My dear, what do you mean?”
She grabbed her bag. “Wait for Daddy,” she said, giving me a hug. Then she took off in her car.
The following few moments, grabbing my keys, running out of my office, and driving home like a man possessed, I hardly remembered.
The house seemed unnaturally quiet when I rushed through the door. Laurel had left. Not a word. No trace of her whereabouts.
Alice’s tiny body was wrapped in a blanket and curled up on the couch. Her own tears had put her to sleep.
I took a deep breath.
Her large, naive eyes met mine when she eventually awoke.
“Daddy… Where is Mommy?
I didn’t know how to respond.
Then I noticed it.
On the kitchen counter was a white envelope.
I ripped it open with trembling hands.
Kevin
I can no longer live this way. I’ll be gone by the time you read this. But in a week, you’ll learn what happened to me.
Laurel
The words didn’t make sense, even after reading them three times.
She had left.
No justification. Not a warning.
I waited for whatever she meant when she said, “You’ll find out what happened to me in a week,” and for a week I lived in hell.
Then I learned on the seventh day.
I switched on the television that morning.
In the background, the news kept repeating—weather reports, the inauguration of a new supermarket—until her face abruptly came into view.
I gasped.
I wasn’t positive it was her at first. But as the camera panned in, I was able to see those familiar eyes and that gentle smile, though it now appeared to be burdened with anxiety.
Speaking via a microphone, Laurel stood outside a nearby structure that I barely recognized.
She stated, “I just want other people to know they’re not alone.” Sometimes we have issues we feel we can’t talk about, so we live behind closed doors. However, we must begin discussing them.
The voice of the reporter interrupted:
“Helping Hands Community Center volunteer Laurel Eastwood has stepped out to talk about her difficulties with stress and anxiety. She hopes that sharing her story would inspire others to talk candidly about their mental health.
The floor seemed to have disappeared beneath me.
Mental well-being? Had Laurel been having trouble?
I had no idea.
I hadn’t realized my own wife was drowning because I had been too busy working late and dashing from conference to meeting.
Had she attempted to inform me? Was I simply not paying attention?
Alice, sitting next to me, gazed at the TV while her spoon hovered over her cereal.
With a broken voice, she whispered gently, “That’s Mommy.”
I tightened my throat and drew her into my arms.
Yes, dear. Mommy is that. And we will track her down.
I made a call to the community center that afternoon.
A receptionist answered, her tone courteous yet circumspect. “I apologize, but we are unable to provide personal information—”
“Please,” I cut in. “I am her spouse. All I have to do is speak with her.
After hesitating, the woman became softer. “She is scheduled to attend a fundraiser this evening.”
I only needed that.
I drove directly to the function that evening after leaving Alice with my sister.
I felt a surge of anxiety as soon as I entered the community center. People were moving around, drinking coffee, and looking through pamphlets about burnout and stress.
Then I caught sight of her.
Laurel was standing close to the front, helping an old woman find a seat.
She had a new appearance.
Not only is it lighter and more liberated. As if she had emerged from a shadow and entered the light.
Across the room, our gazes locked.
She stopped.
Neither of us moved for a moment. Then she moved slowly, hesitating with each step, across the room.
Her voice was hardly audible above a whisper when she said, “Kevin.” “You did come,”
The lump in my throat was swallowed. “I watched the news and saw you. Laurel I didn’t know.
She chuckled bitterly. “I made an effort to tell you. However, each time I brought it up, you were either too tired to discuss or working late. I began to feel… inconspicuous. like an apparition in my own house.
Her voice faltered. “I wasn’t alive. I was making it through.
I was struck by her comments like a freight train.
“I’m very sorry, Laurel. I didn’t mean to give you that feeling.
“I understand.” Her eyes grew softer. “But I also knew that I would continue to fade away if I didn’t leave.”
I let out a trembling breath. Alice is missing you. She has been requesting you daily.
Her eyes welled with tears. “I also miss her.” But since I wasn’t even taking care of myself, I couldn’t be a decent mother.
“Are you going home?” I inquired.
She paused.
“Not just yet. I require time. I require counseling. I also need you to realize that I can’t simply return to my previous way of life. For once, I must put myself first.
I listened intently for the first time in our marriage.
And I understood that she was correct.
I said, “Then I’ll do whatever it takes.” “I’ll accompany you to therapy. I’ll work less hours. Laurel, whatever you need. Just don’t ignore me.
She looked at me for a while. Then she reached for my hand slowly.
“I’m grateful, Kevin.”
Everything altered during the course of the following few months.
In order to get home by dinner, I rearranged my work schedule. Laurel began going to therapy, spending some days with Alice and others by herself.
Alice initially found it difficult to comprehend why Mommy wasn’t home all the time. However, we just informed her that “Mommy is working on feeling better.”
And Alice jumped into Laurel’s arms with a smile each time she entered the room.
Laurel invited me to an event at the center one evening.
I hesitated. However, I heard folks talk about their challenges that evening, including panic attacks, depression, and burnout. I also recognized, for the first time, that I wasn’t alone.
I was asked to speak by Laurel. I initially stammered out what I was saying, but I later acknowledged:
Sometimes we believe that paying employees is sufficient. We overlook the need for emotional assistance as well. I nearly lost my wife because I failed to recognize the extent of her suffering.
Alice held both of our hands as we walked out together that evening, skipping between us.
The ending wasn’t ideal.
However, it was a fresh start.
Laurel returned home gradually.
We located a marital advisor. I use my phone to set alarms for “family time.” Most importantly, I was there.
Laurel grabbed for my hand one evening when we were seated at the kitchen table.
“I appreciate you changing,” she muttered.
I gave her hand a squeeze. “I nearly lost my relatives.” I want to never again take us for granted.
After all, love is more than simply being present.
It’s about genuinely witnessing the people we care about before they pass away in front of our eyes.
