Rationalise it all you want, Cynthia, but it’s time to face the facts: Mark hasn’t made a move in, what, five months? More? It’s always been you, and he’s hardly ever wanting to even when you do. That doesn’t sound like the actions of a man who still loves you, sweetheart. You only have two children together, as well. Not from lack of trying on your part, though, is it? If he really did love you, surely he would’ve been willing to try for another baby or two.
That conversation with myself lasted for hours. I tried so, so many times to think about something else – such as all the naughty, sexy things Mark and I would do with each other when I showed up at his hotel in Melbourne in just two more days – but then the voice of doubt kept creeping back in: That’s assuming he doesn’t just kick you out the moment he sees you and how desperate you are for a fuck.
I wouldn’t say I’m prone to depression, but at times like that it’s hard to believe that. All the self-doubt and nasty thoughts you have about yourself when you’re tired and feeling all alone, it’s hard for anybody if they don’t have hope. My hope that night was the hope that I was wrong about my husband, and that he was just stressed about wrapping things up properly before retirement, and that he’d be so overwhelmed by surprise and desire that he’d take me before I even had a chance to change into some of the sexy clothes I’d packed. So, that’s the battle I fought in my head on the first night of our road trip. Not exactly a great start, nor an experience I’m keen to repeat at any point soon.
Though there were a few hours it didn’t seem likely, the morning did eventually arrive. Joel and I left the motel, and the first few hours of the trip went by without incident. But then I had to open my big goddamn mouth. Both at the time and now, I blame everything on my lack of sleep and the not-quite depression from the night before. And I suppose my inherent neediness might also have been a contributing factor. But mostly I was lacking my normal filter from being sleep deprived and a little depressed. So I randomly turned to my son and asked him, “Do you think I’m attractive? Like, genuinely attractive?”
To his credit, Joel didn’t run the truck off the road as he stammered and tried to think of a response. “I, um, yeah, I guess, no- you’re my mum, just- I’m driving…”
My maternal instincts worked together with my neediness as I tried to reassure my son. “Joel, honey, relax. Whatever you say, I won’t judge you or hold it against you or anything. I just… I’ll love you no matter what; I’m just really starting to have some doubts about myself lately.” I tried to stop my voice from quivering towards the end, but I don’t think I was terribly successful.
He took a deep breath before answering. Eyes still focused on the road, he confessed, “I think by now you should know I don’t think you’re ugly at all, Mum.” I nodded. “But I – oh man – I think you’re beautiful.” He paused as his face started to turn blood red . “No, screw it. I think you’re beautiful. And sexy. I have thought so ever since I was like 15 and you’ve only gotten more beautiful and sexy as you’ve gotten older. And I’m sorry, I know that’s way too much information for a guy to say to his mother. But you did ask.”
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