—an excerpt—
Sitting at my kitchen table, I find myself wondering whether I deserve this life—and whether this life is enough. I have everything I said I never wanted: a house littered with my children’s toys and my husband’s odds and ends.
I have the exact life you imagined for us.
And it is the life I wouldn’t fight for with you.
You wanted to plant us in that pulp-mill town.
You were desperate to cure your drifting, certain that stability could be summoned by staking a claim and forcing roots to grow.
Now, I can see how confusing it must have been. I was an active participant in your vision. First, it was finding our tiny apartment together. Then it was learning how to cook your mom’s recipes. There was momentum, and the domesticity of it all was intoxicating.
When you asked me to come and stay on-site during longer, isolated work rotations, I always said yes. Travelling on winding logging roads, pulling into thick, forested one-street towns felt like possibility lingered just beyond the trees. Like we could find happiness anywhere.
You saw the security that those towns offered. A sense of familiarity and belonging. One gas station, one general store, a small school, and a few houses nestled together.
I saw the expansive forest and felt the wildness seep into my heart.
I thought we were walking into the forest together.
I didn’t realize you were building a fence.
