Helena’s life had become folded into a logistical struggle of the little things in life, getting up in the morning, eating, going out, dropping the girls off at day care, showing up for work, doing work, leaving, collecting the children, dinner, playing with her daughters, and getting them ready for bed.
She could feel her underarms becoming damp. What to say? How could she explain to her husband of six years that she was waking up in the middle of the night on the tail end of a dream, in which her darkly handsome professor was proclaiming his undying love for her, while he popped an expensive sparkler on her finger?
“It’s nothing,” she muttered.
His gaze sharpened. “Nothing?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She pushed the half-open door wide.
“Helena!” he exclaimed in the whispered shout he’d perfected since the children had arrived.
But he no longer had the power to reel her in by the sound of his voice. She shut the door, crawling into the secure tangle of sheets, telling herself he wouldn’t come for her, because she wasn’t important to him any more. She swallowed as she buried her face into the sweaty dimness. Helena had met Dr. Vanderzanden in a Statistics class she’d had to take for her Business degree. She’d been number-phobic and miserable, but wanting to be a good role model for her daughters, she forced herself to attend Dr. Vanderzanden’s office hours. And somehow, she managed to learn enough to pass the course and graduate.
[To be continued.]