Your Problems Are My Problems

*

*Anna*

Something is wrong with my husband.

Even though Grant rarely talks to me, and we hardly ever spend more than a few moments awake alone in a room together, as he goes about getting ready for bed tonight, I can tell he’s troubled.

I did not go to family dinner tonight. After what happened last night, I may never show my face there again. It’s been difficult for me to put a single bite of food in my mouth since the family humiliated me about that cake–even though both my eyes and the scale tell me I’m not overweight. Nevertheless, it’s easier to believe a lie told by others than it is the truth we find in our own heart.

I lie on my little bed, listening, as my husband goes about getting ready for bed. This is the same routine as most nights. I’m already tucked in when he finally escapes the rest of the family. But tonight, he’s acting marginally different. Grant sighs for maybe the third time since he walked in five minutes ago and sets his cufflinks in a box on his dresser. He’s left the light on in the bathroom with the door cracked a bit so he can see and not wake me up–if he thinks I’m actually asleep. I see him shake his head slightly, and fear coils deep inside me.

What if he’s upset because he knows he has to tell me that he wants a divorce?

Despite him not loving me, Grant is a kind person, like his mother, and it’s difficult for him to be mean to anyone–even his despised wife. Though it would likely make his life easier and bring him great joy in the long run, he would struggle to tell me such a thing.

I would struggle to hear it.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, I sit up, biting my bottom lip as I see him begin to unbutton his shirt. My hesitancy has less to do with the fact that I’m watching my handsome husband undress, unbeknownst to him, and more to do with my fear of finding out the truth. If I never ask, it may be harder for him to bring it up–but if I give him the opportunity, I might be slitting my own throat.

His eyes catch me in the mirror, and it doesn’t matter now. He pauses, three buttons down, and turns to look at me. “Did I wake you?” I hear the apology in his tone.

Shaking my head, I say, “No,” not bothering to tell him I’ve been awake nearly every time he’s come in to get ready for bed for the last year. “Something is troubling you, husband.”

He raises an eyebrow and takes a deep breath. For a moment, his eyes flicker back and forth, like the cat clock my mother used to have hanging in her kitchen. Then, he says, “It’s nothing for you to worry about, Anna.”

He’s dismissing me. I know that. I press on anyway. “You are my husband,” I remind him. “Whether everyone likes it or not.” His face turns down, and I imagine that’s because he’s a member of the “everyone” I just spoke of. “If you need to talk to someone who will understand you, I can listen.”

Grant’s mouth opens, like maybe he will tell me the problem, but then it closes. “It’s really nothing.”

Sensing he’s on the cusp of having a conversation with me for the first time in… years… I forget my own concerns about my predicament and nudge him again. “Do you remember that time when you were ten, and that mean boy stole your favorite trading card?

His eyebrows furrow, and he takes a step closer to me. “Vaguely. Why do you ask?”

It’s my turn to sigh as I adjust on the bed, careful to keep my blankets over my pajamas. “Well, you came home and told me all about it. You told me nearly everything then, if you will recall. Back before….” I stop. There’s no sense in finishing that sense. Back before everyone in his family began to judge me so harshly. “I told you how to get it back, remember? That I was friends with his sister, and she could find out where he was keeping it? She told me he always kept it in his locker so he could laugh at you every day at school. You were able to sneak into his locker and get it back.”

Without speaking, Grant walks across the room and sits on the edge of his bed, so he is about five feet from me. 

“Grant, I may not be as smart as other members of our family, but I am sometimes good at finding solutions to problems. If something is troubling you, perhaps I can help.” I manage a weak smile, but if he tells me that the problem is he must divorce me to marry Barbara, I may climb to the top of the house and throw myself off.

He drags a hand down his face before he says, “Anna, you are smart. Think of the grades you made in school.”

I shake my head. “That was a long time ago.” I don’t know why he’s bringing that up now. “Anyway, this is about you. What’s wrong?”

His dark eyes watch me for a moment before he says. “It’s nothing, really. Just a problem at work.”

“Is something the matter with Young Corporation?” I let myself imagine for a second what would happen if the company went under. We’d be ruined. I wouldn’t mind so much, but Grant and his family would be devastated.

“Not exactly.” He fidgets with his cuffs, even though the links are gone. “We’re trying to get Savage Enterprises to give us a piece of land for a new development, and Grandmother Trudy wants all of us to come up with an idea to get it. I don’t have any ideas,” he admits with a shrug. “I know it will be difficult. Sam Savage is, well, a savage. I have no shot at getting a meeting with him.”

Nodding, I consider his predicament. I know very little about Sam Savage and his company, only that it is our biggest rival, and the man is quite shrewd. “Is there anything that he may want that Young Corporation has? Or something you could acquire that you could trade?”

Grant’s forehead puckers. “Not that I know of.”

“Maybe there is a way you could find out,” I say with a shrug. “You wouldn’t have to talk to Mr. Savage to figure out what properties he’s looking to acquire–not necessarily, anyway. If you had something that meant something to him, perhaps he would be willing to make a deal.”

My husband’s eyes bore holes through me into the wall behind me for so long, I realize everything I’ve suggested is idiotic. Of course, that would never work. I start to shake my head when Grant stands. “Maybe,” he says, his hand poised on his jaw in a thoughtful expression. “Maybe.”

He’s just being nice, trying not to make me feel stupid. As he murmurs a quick thank you and disappears into the bathroom, I drop backward onto my pillow. I’m such an idiot. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

Well, at least he didn’t tell me he wants a divorce–that’s something.

Not yet, anyway.