I used to sleep in the middle of the bed.
Not because I needed space, but because there was warmth there. Because there was us. Because reaching out in the dark didn’t feel risky.
Now I sleep on the edge.
I stay still at night, careful not to wake her. Not because she asked me to — but because I’m tired of feeling rejected. It hurts less when I don’t hope.
The house is always full of noise. Toys everywhere. Laundry that never ends. Two small children who need everything from us, all the time.
I wake up before the sun. I leave while the house is quiet. I work long hours — 7am to 8pm — then sit in traffic, then take overtime, because bills don’t care how tired I am. Rent. School fees. Survival.
When I come home, I don’t switch off. I cook sometimes. I help bathe the kids. I clean. I try to be present even when my body is done.
But at night, when everything finally slows down, I feel alone.
I don’t need wild passion. I don’t need anything unrealistic. I just want to feel wanted. Chosen. Touched without it feeling like a burden.
When I try to connect, she tells me she’s exhausted. That work and kids drain her. That sex is the last thing on her mind.
I understand that. I really do.
But four months pass. No initiation. No agreement. No effort. Not even openness to scheduling. And slowly, something inside me starts to break.
I’ve talked to her about it. Calmly. Honestly. I told her how rejected I feel. How lonely. She said she understands. She said it’s just a phase. She said counseling isn’t needed.
And maybe for her, it really is just a phase.
For me, it feels like disappearing.
I hate admitting this, but resentment is building. I feel like a roommate in my own house. I still love her — that’s the worst part — but love without touch feels like hunger that no one takes seriously.
Sometimes my mind wanders. I imagine being desired by someone else. I don’t act on it, but the fact that I’m tempted scares me. Not because I want to cheat — but because I want to feel alive again.
At night, I lie there staring at the ceiling, wondering when our marriage stopped being us and started being functioning.
I’m not asking to be more important than the kids.
I’m not asking for perfection.
I’m just asking not to feel invisible.
So I sleep on the edge of the bed, hoping one night she’ll roll closer on her own.
Not even for sex.
Just to remind me that I still matter.