Sunday morning is the most beautiful and tranquil time of the week. Most people sleep in unless they attend church or have other activities in the morning. Most people wake up with loved ones and can look forward to a day of rest. Sunday morning is one of those things people could not have every day, for it would become unappreciated. Sunday morning never comes to me.
My Sunday morning consists of solitude. I wake up to no one, for my husband, Trent, is with his mistress, Rachelle. I know about her, because he shows all the signs. Our friends know he’s cheating on me, but they don’t say a word. I have my own money, personality, mind, and other elements to become an individual woman and leave him. He and I don’t have children due to my infertility, so divorcing him would not be difficult. However, I want to feel needed. I guess he proposed to me because he must have seen something in me, right? I don’t know how to approach him about Rachelle. I don’t feel depressed, and I don’t feel helpless or worthless; I simply feel alone. I know he wouldn’t tell me the truth.
I’ve had many opportunities to leave him, yet I’ve always wondered why I didn’t. I wondered if he knew that I knew about Rachelle. I didn’t want to know if they had children. I had my closest female friend offer a surrogacy for me and Trent, but I denied. I have no problem with adopting, but I believe a baby should be made out of love, for he’s half of the mother and half of the father. Even though my friend and I have the same features, I couldn’t love a child made out of desire. To be honest, the idea of a surrogacy makes me feel empty inside.
I hear Trent sneaking back into the house, so I pretend to sleep. Sometimes, he’ll sit in the bed beside me and look at me. Then, he’ll sigh, and go to sleep. When he falls asleep, I get out of bed and move as far away as I can. I don’t hate him, but I don’t love him.
One Friday afternoon, I was discharged early because I had a stomach ache. When I returned home, I decided to write in my journal. I usually write in it because I never share my thoughts with anyone. When I need to release the bad feelings I keep inside, I yell at a wall or cry myself to sleep. I guess it’s just my way of coping because I know I can get myself out of my situation, but I don’t. I was writing when I heard the front door open. I froze when I heard Trent and Rachelle came into the house. Returning to my senses, I quickly got my journal and purse and tried to go downstairs without being seen. I failed miserably, for I came face to face with them. I noticed Rachelle had a ruby necklace I lost some months ago.
“Honey, who’s this?” she asked Trent. I walked past them, trying to hurry, when Trent tried to grab me and hold me back. “It’s fine, really,” I told him, “Everyone deserves happiness.” Rachelle, realizing I’m Trent’s wife, quickly criticized me. She insulted my image, my identity, and everything else I could have possibly had. I didn’t know what to say, but I snapped. I realized what Rachelle had that I didn’t; she was so human and lively. She could feel anger, distrust, lust, joy, and jealousy. I couldn’t feel anything. If anything, I probably just felt loneliness. Returning to my senses again, I tried to walk out.
“Kayla, wait,” Trent said, “I love you. I’m sorry, I just wanted more. I’ll never do this again” All of a sudden, I began to say everything that I only told walls. I told him how everyone knew about Rachelle, including me. I knew that I wasn’t the one for him. In his eyes, I knew my six-digit income was my best feature because I didn’t want sex. Gravity shaped me into an unstoppable posture. I told him how I hated the smell of him because he smelled like her. I got my few things and left. Trent followed me outside, but I pushed him away. I got into my truck and fled the scene; I didn’t stop driving. I didn’t leave anything behind. In fact, I left with more than I originally had. I left with dignity and acceptance. “Everyone deserves happiness,” I told myself. I genuinely laughed at myself and repeated, “Sunday morning is coming for me.”
It’s seven in the morning. I wake up to no one because Trent is gone. I curl into a ball and pity myself. He returns from Rachelle’s and is surprised to see me awake. He asks what’s wrong, but I tell him I have a stomach ache. “Wish it were a baby,” he says. I get out of bed and walk to the French doors. Once again, Sunday morning isn’t here for me. The warmth of the sun rays that enter through the doors leaves me cold in the bedroom.
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