I’m Ready Now

This story is by Sharon T. Markey and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Slowly I type: Jeremiah, Age 35: I am serious and loyal. I like strong, black coffee and taking walks in the rain.

I jab the backspace key until the words all disappear and pound my fist into the couch.

What was I thinking? I can’t do this.

I slap my laptop shut and gaze across the room. Our framed family photograph catches my eye. The four of us are all smiling. Julia, my wife, is right in the center, looking so happy, so beautiful.

She’d tell me to do it.

My mind wanders back to that evening, over six years earlier, when the photographer came to the house to take that picture. My wife’s prognosis wasn’t good, and we knew if we wanted a photo, we’d have to do it before the chemo and radiation. Before her long black hair fell out in clumps. Before she got too sick and weak to get out of bed.

Looking at the picture now, I don’t know how we managed to make our smiles look so real. I guess it was easy for the girls. Rachel didn’t know anything was wrong, and she loved posing for the camera. The baby giggled because I was tickling her belly while the photographer clicked away. But how come Julia and I look so genuinely happy? I try to remember exactly what I was feeling during that long-ago moment.

I think it was gratitude. I was grateful I’d gotten to spend as many years as I had with this woman by my side. And I was beyond thankful for the two girls our love had created.

But later, when things got really bad for her, I had a hard time feeling grateful. I was mad. She didn’t deserve this. But she always seemed to be at peace. Even right near the end, when I could tell she was suffering, she never complained. And she never stopped thinking about us. She was always thinking about other people.

“The girls are going to need a mother,” she’d told me. “Don’t be afraid to find love again.”

That’s what I’m trying to do now. Find love again. But I’m terrified.

“Daddy?” The baby in the picture, Sarah, is 7 now. She interrupts my memories and pads over to cuddle next to me on the couch.

“Hey, baby girl. You’re still awake? It’s late.”

“I’m lonely.”

“Okay, you can sit with me for a bit.”

She snuggles in, and I put my arm around her. When I can tell she’s getting drowsy, I carry her back to bed. Her big sister Rachel is already fast asleep on her side of the room. As I tuck Sarah in, she lifts her face to me.

“Do nosey-nosey,” she says.

I lean in and rub the tip of my nose against hers.

“Nosey-nosey!” She giggles.

I smile and kiss her forehead, but I’m tormented inside. Every time she asks me to do nosey-nosey, it reminds me of my second wife and how close I came to losing my girls’ trust.

After Julia died, one of her friends started helping with the girls. They really loved Samantha. I was grieving too much to think of remarrying yet, but I did appreciate having a friend who was also grieving over Julia.

We never really dated—but we spent lots of time together. Samantha was easy to talk to, and I liked listening to her. But what I liked most was how she was with the girls. She was a natural at all those little things mothers do. She’d kiss their scrapes or sing a lullaby to calm the baby when she was cranky. She was the one who taught them to do nosey-nosey. Sarah still asks for it all the time, and I don’t have the heart to say no. My second wife is the only mother she can remember, and I know this silly little game makes her feel connected to her.

I asked her to marry me ten months after Julia died. I know people thought it was too soon, but it made sense to me. She was already spending so much time with us.

I wasn’t in love with her—I didn’t expect to get that lucky twice—but I definitely cared for her. When she was around, I felt like I had a friend and a teammate. And she seemed happy when she was with us. Asking her to become part of our family felt like the right move. I wasn’t sure if she was going to say yes, but she did. If things had worked out differently, I might have grown to love her. I’ll never know.

We were happy for about six months. Then it started to fall apart.

She started complaining about how I played with the girls. I’d toss Sarah in the air above our bed and let her land on her back on the mattress. She’d have such a giggle fit! I lived for those giggles. And I’d give pony rides to Rachel, where I was the pony, and she got to direct me by pulling on my shirt collar. If she didn’t turn me fast enough, I’d bonk my head into a wall. Sometimes she’d let me run into the wall on purpose, and then she’d laugh. But Samantha said I was going to hurt the baby, or Rachel was going to fall off my back.

Maybe she was right. Maybe my crazy games would have been better for boys. I let her call the shots, as far as the girls went. After all, a big part of the reason I married her was to give them a mother.

One day she started feeding them before I got home from work. She explained they got too hungry waiting for me. Then she started eating with them, because they didn’t like to eat by themselves. While I was eating by myself, I could hear her playing with them in their bedroom.

And then the fights started. It was like we couldn’t have a normal conversation anymore. She always had something to complain about.

I never said anything about how much I liked dinner. (It was always cold, and I ate it alone.)

I didn’t notice when she did her hair a new way. (That was on me, but in my defense, I always thought her hair looked great however she did it.)

I didn’t buy her flowers. (It didn’t occur to me, because I never got Julia flowers—she said she’d rather grow her own—but the day after that fight I brought flowers home. She huffed, said she didn’t like tulips, and left them lying on the kitchen counter. I didn’t bother to point out I’d picked her favorite color.)

It made me feel sick to see how all this affected the girls. Instead of running to meet me when I got home, they started staying in their room until she was done yelling at me. Even then, they often didn’t come out until I went to find them. And they were quiet all the time.

Once she even hit me. That was the day she screamed that I was still in love with Julia. It’s hard to believe, but I honestly hadn’t realized that was such a problem. I apologized, and she slapped me in the face. Then she stomped to our bedroom and slammed the door. I felt awful. I followed her and knocked. She opened the door and slammed it again before I could say anything.

I knew I needed to make sure the girls were alright. I found them huddled on the floor of their room, their eyes wide. I got down on my knees, held them close, and felt their bodies stiffen.

“Are you girls okay? I love you.”

“Then how come you never eat with us?” Rachel asked.

“Because Mommy Samantha feeds you early.”

“She says it’s ‘cause you don’t care.” Rachel raised her chin and pushed away from me.

The memory of her accusation still makes my stomach clench. Even if I hadn’t gotten over Julia yet, my second wife had no right to steal my daughters’ affection.

I tuck Sarah in, then I cross to Rachel’s side of the bedroom. I straighten her blanket and kiss her hair. After the divorce, she started to trust me again. We often talked about how much we missed Julia. We cried together.

The years with just the three of us have been hard, but at least they’ve been peaceful. But I’ve gotta admit, Sarah’s not the only one who’s been lonely. Lately, I’ve been sleeping sitting up on the couch with the light on, because I can’t stand my empty bedroom.

I return to the living room, open my laptop, and stare at the blinking cursor.

Slowly I type: Jeremiah, Age 35: I’m a widower and divorcee. I have two lovely daughters, ages 7 and 11. I’m looking for someone to share life with us. I’m ready to find love again.