When Will This Bitch Have a Good Day?

Thursday, March 20, 2025. This is for Lindsay and Matthew. I was glad to help, but you did all the work. Godspeed.

The thought arrives uninvited, mid-chew, as he watches his wife push eggs around her plate like they personally offended her.

Jesus Christ. When will this bitch have a good day?

He takes another bite of toast and keeps his eyes down.

Best not to engage too early. He’s learned that much.

Across the table, she sighs. Not a normal sigh—a performative sigh. A sigh meant to be noticed, meant to puncture the quiet like a pin through his temple.

He glances up. "Everything okay?" She blinks at him, slow and deliberate, as if she’s debating whether to waste her words on him. "Fine." Lie.

He knows better than to ask again. He used to—back when he still thought there were correct answers. Back when he believed a little charm, a little patience, could reroute whatever invisible flood she was drowning in.

He used to lean in, brush her hair off her face, and say things like, Come on, tell me what’s wrong—like he was in some indie film about husbands who get it. Now, he just drinks his coffee.

It’s not that he doesn’t care. He tells himself that a lot. He tells himself he wants her to be happy.

He just wishes she could—what? Get there on her own? Be easier? Less work?

He watches her pick up her phone, thumb scrolling aggressively, lips pursed like a judge deliberating a sentence.

She’s probably reading some psychology post, something about how partners need to be “emotionally available.” She’s always sending him those links, the ones about doing the work. He read one once. It basically boiled down to think before you react. Which, Sure. But what about her? What about her reactions?

The sharp tone, the impatient huff, the way she treats every minor inconvenience like a cosmic betrayal?

She talks about emotional labor like it’s her full-time job, but she spends zero time making him feel like a human worth staying married to.

A notification pops up on his own phone. A meme from the group chat with the guys. It’s some video of a dog barking at its own reflection.

Marriage in one clip, the caption says. He snorts.

She looks up. "What’s funny?"

"Nothing."

And just like that, the air changes. Nothing. That word always sets her off.

He can see it in her face, the way she stiffens, the way she’s deciding whether to pick this fight.

And of course, she does."Nothing?" she echoes. "What’s nothing?"

Here we go. She wants something to be wrong.

That’s the thing—she needs conflict. He could be rubbing her feet, bringing her flowers, and she’d still find some reason to frown at the horizon.

She folds her arms. "If you’re going to sit there with your little smirk—""It was a meme."

He doesn’t mean to say it like that—sharp, clipped. But the second it’s out, he can see the shift.

She’s hurt. And God, the guilt.

It always comes. It seeps in, sticky and unshakeable, like beer spilled in a car.

He could apologize. He could try again. He could do the work. But instead, he just sighs.She exhales, defeated. "Forget it."

And there it is. Another morning derailed.

Another fight that never had a proper beginning and will never have a real end. He gets up and grabs his keys. As he heads to the door, he catches his own reflection in the hallway mirror. He doesn’t like what he sees.He looks tired.

Worn down in ways he doesn’t have words for. And something about that stops him.He stands there a second longer than usual.

Then, instead of walking out, he turns back.

She’s still at the table, still scrolling, still lost in whatever storm she’s carrying.

He doesn’t know what he’s about to say—doesn’t even know what he wants to say.

But for the first time in a long time, he thinks maybe it should be something different.

His mouth opens. Then closes. He doesn’t want to pick a fight. But he also doesn’t want to keep doing… whatever this is.

The endless loop of snark, sighs, and space that never quite closes.

She glances up, catches him standing there, keys in hand, face unreadable.

Her thumb pauses mid-scroll."What?" she says, wary. He almost bails. Almost mutters, nothing, walks out, lets the day unfold exactly as it always does.

But something in his reflection—the worn-down, disappointed look in his own eyes—won’t let him.

So instead, he says, "Do you even like me anymore?" The question lands between them like a dropped glass. Her eyes widen. Then narrow.

He sees her start to arm herself, start to ready whatever defense she keeps stored for moments like these.

But something flickers before the armor locks into place. Something startled. Something soft."What?" she says again, but this time, it sounds different.

He shrugs, trying not to sound as raw as he feels. "You don’t seem to." She blinks, the words hitting her in real-time. "Of course I do."

"Then why do I feel like you don’t?"

She stares at him. For a second, it looks like she might roll her eyes, scoff, deflect.

Then, something shifts. She presses her lips together, the phone still motionless in her hand."I don’t know," she finally says.

Quiet. Honest. The truth of it hangs between them. He expected a rebuttal, an accusation, a you’re just being dramatic.

But instead, there’s this. A terrifying, unfamiliar silence.

He exhales and sits back down.

She watches him like she’s waiting for him to turn back into the version of himself that doesn’t ask these kinds of questions.

The version that shrugs things off, makes jokes, lets things go. He doesn’t.

Instead, he runs a hand through his hair and asks, "When was the last time you had a good day?"

Her shoulders drop, and she lets out a sound that isn’t quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

"I don’t even know."The answer stings.

Because if she doesn’t know, if she’s been running on empty for this long, then how is he supposed to have a chance?

How are they supposed to?

She finally sets her phone down. Looks at him, really looks at him, for the first time in weeks. Maybe months.

"What are we doing?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t have an answer. But the fact that she’s asking—that she’s meeting him in the space between them instead of letting it widen—feels like something.

Maybe even something worth staying for.

Be Well, Stay Kind, and Godspeed.