No one tells you how love can feel like war.
Not loud, not explosive—
but slow.
Suffocating.
Fought in custody calendars and cold shoulders.
Waged in silences, in compromises that cut too deep,
in “it’s fine” said through clenched teeth.
You think you’re building something new—
but some days it feels like you’re just surviving in someone else’s wreckage.
I see it in his shoulders before the weekend even arrives—
that quiet dread that doesn’t need words.
She doesn’t message.
She doesn’t need to.
Her control is felt without her even being in the room.
He braces for it—
the curveball, the complaint, the guilt trip dressed as logic.
And I brace too, because I know what it’s like
to parent with someone who acts like a guest in your child’s life
but still wants to rewrite the schedule whenever it suits them.
I bring my own ghosts to the bed.
I won’t pretend I don’t.
Dave drops bombs wrapped in smiles.
He changes plans without warning,
shows up when it’s convenient,
and I’m left cleaning up the emotional fallout while he goes off living his life untouched.
He gets to disappear.
I have to stay.
He gets the credit.
I get the cost.
They get the fun weekends away,
the final say on what counts as reasonable decisions.
We get the scraps.
The pieces.
The mess left behind.
All while trying to work full-time and not be made to feel like we’ve somehow chosen work over our children.
Dave spends money like water—meals out, new clothes, holidays.
I’m skipping lunch to make sure Tilly has what she wants.
Buying that second teddy I really shouldn’t, just to see her smile.
And still, we’re the ones being questioned.
All we want is time.
And that’s the one thing we never seem to be given.
She plays the Instagram mother of the year.
Glossy smiles and curated captions—
while I’m behind the scenes,
desperately trying to fix the wounds she’s left in Joel and Luca.
Trying to be gentle with a child who scowls,
who mistrusts me at every turn—
and still showing up anyway.
Because someone has to.
And I love them enough to be the villain in someone else’s story
if it means they get to feel safe.
So we lie there, Joel and I—
back to back.
Not angry. Just done.
Two people trying to love each other through the noise.
Through the mess.
Through the exhaustion of showing up while the people who don’t still get to set the terms.
They get to say no.
We get to say yes.
They get the breaks.
We get the breakdowns.
They get to play the part.
We have to be it.
All of it.
All the time.
I try not to take it out on him.
But sometimes I do.
Because I’m tired.
Because I’ve held too much for too long.
Because when everything feels out of control,
the person closest to you becomes the safest place to let it crack.
But he’s not the problem.
He’s the one still here.
Still reaching for me when I go quiet.
Still holding space when I’ve got nothing left to give.
Still choosing us, even when everything else is pulling us apart.
This isn’t a love story tied up in ribbon.
It’s duct tape and determination.
It’s whispered check-ins and half-slept nights.
It’s “I know this isn’t fair, but I still choose you.”
We are both tired.
Both haunted.
Both held hostage by people who should’ve stayed gone.
But we’re still showing up.
And that?
That’s love.
That’s war.
That’s everything.