Kneading Love Again
“About tonight—” Jonah starts, his tone hesitant.
“No.” My words come out sharp as I shake my head, cutting him off. “You gave me your word, Jonah. Three days ago, you promised me. You looked me in the eyes and promised.”
He sighs, his sudden discomfort filling the car. “I know, but—”
The soft glow of his phone illuminates the dashboard. Her name flashes on the screen: Vivienne.
“Don’t answer it.” My voice trembles, urgency bleeding into my plea. “Please, Jonah. It’s my birthday.”
He hesitates barely a second before picking up his phone. The moment his fingers reach for it, I watch the distance between us grow. The man I married, the one who barely talks to me now, transforms the moment he hears her voice.
“Vivienne? What’s going on?”
I close my eyes, tears threatening to spill even as I fight them back. The ache in my chest deepens, and everything inside me feels heavy, drained.
Three years. Three years of being married to Jonah, of knowing I’d never come before her. Panic attacks, always hers, always urgent, have taken every milestone from me.
Our anniversary dinner ended with him rushing to her side. The day of our ultrasound, where we found out the gender of our baby, he spent more time calming her than celebrating with me. My baby shower—ruined.
Each moment that should’ve drawn us closer as a family was stolen by her emergencies. And Jonah never questions it, never wonders if it’s more than bad timing.
But I do. I know. It’s not coincidence, at least not anymore. She’s orchestrating this. Every time something is important to me, she makes sure to take Jonah away. And I can’t even voice it aloud because that would make me the bad person.
Her voice crackles faintly through the phone speaker. “Jonah, I can’t… I can’t breathe. It’s really bad this time. Please, I’m scared.”
“I’ll be there.” He’s already scanning the road for a place to turn as he speaks. “Where are you? Are you home?”
Somewhere inside me, hope flares—a fragile thing—and I grasp at it. “Jonah.” My voice is soft, pleading. “Please. Just this once, stay with me tonight…”
His glance flicks toward me for the briefest moment. “You know she needs me, Sienna. You understand how bad these attacks can get.”
“What about me?” My voice cracks, betraying the intense hurt I try to hold back. “Don’t I need you, too?”
“You’re not having a panic attack, are you?” The dismissiveness in his tone cuts deeper than any shouting ever could. “Why are you being so dramatic?”
Dramatic.
Wanting to spend my birthday with my husband is dramatic. Feeling invisible, forgotten in my own marriage—dramatic. The laugh that escapes me sounds hollow, almost bitter. “I put on a smile every time you break our plans for her, and I’m never dramatic then. Just once, I ask for one evening with you—one night—and now I’m dramatic? Jonah Brennan, do you even see me anymore? Do you even see me as your wife?”
The shift in his expression is immediate, his voice sharp and defensive. “Vivienne is going through something! And don’t think I’ll let you guilt me into staying just because your father paid for my degree!”
Every word he says feels like a blade, cutting into me. My stomach twists, and I barely manage to whisper, “Stop the car.”
“What?” He looks at me like he didn’t hear me right.
The seatbelt comes off with jittery hands, my voice stronger this time. “I said, stop the car.”
“Sienna, what are you doing?” His confusion is tinged with irritation.
I glare at him, pain and resolve mingling together as I reach for the door handle. “Go to her. Run to her if she’s all you care about. But I’m not going to sit here and watch—again—as you pick her over me.”
He exhales sharply, as though I’ve just said something childish. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?” The cold night air hits me the second I push open the door, brushing across my face and arms like a slap. “Then prove it. For once in three years, Jonah, prove me wrong. Stay. Pick me.”
For a moment, something flickers in his eyes. He looks at me like he’s second-guessing the decision already half-made. For a single heartbeat, I believe he might actually stay. Maybe, just this once, he’ll choose me.
But then she calls out through the phone again. “Jonah? Are you there? Please… I’m scared.”
The hesitation vanishes, replaced by something colder, harder. He avoids my gaze as he mutters, “She’s alone. She needs me.”
“And I don’t?” I whisper, but he doesn’t answer, his focus already on reversing the car. My breath catches as I watch him prioritize her fears over my pain, yet again.
Without another word, I step out onto the shoulder of the highway. My long dress whips around my legs in the cool breeze, but I don’t let it slow me.
“Sienna!” His voice is sharp behind me, tinged with frustration. “Get back in the car!”
I keep walking, heels clicking against the asphalt. Every step feels heavier than the last, like my legs are made of lead. I don’t look back. If I do, I might crumble under the weight of it all.
His voice follows, louder and tinged with finality. “Fine! If you want to act like this, then figure out how to get home on your own!”
The slam of the car door echoes through the empty stretch of highway. My chest tightens as my pulse pounds in my ears. When I finally glance over my shoulder, his car is already speeding off, the red taillights like parting wounds in the darkness.
He chose her.
Again.
Pain spreads through me, sharp and unrelenting, as though every nerve is on fire. My hands instinctively move to cradle my belly. The baby kicks, anxious at my distress, and I stroke my stomach like I can somehow shield them from this moment.
Tears fall freely now, hot and blinding, but I force myself to keep walking. My breath shakes as I move forward, step after step, the silence of the night broken only by my muffled sobs.
This is what it feels like to be abandoned. Jonah left me here—pregnant and alone—because she called. He didn’t even say to call for help.
My phone vibrates, cutting through the hopelessness. For one fleeting second, I think it’s him, reaching out, maybe with an apology.
I swipe across the screen, but instead of Jonah’s name, it’s hers. Vivienne.
My stomach knots as I read the message: “He’s on his way. Thanks for understanding, sister-in-law!”
The last words burn more than I thought possible. Sister-in-law. To her, I’m nothing more than a bystander in my own life. No one sees how she’s ripped everything apart, how she’s taken over.
I stare at the message for what feels like forever, the phone shaking in my hands. Something inside me shatters completely, and this time, there’s no putting the pieces back together.
