The Marriage That Wasn't
By Olivia Salter
It was 2:07 AM when Tamara lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, her breath coming slow and measured. The bedroom clock ticked—a sharp, rhythmic sound that drilled into the silence. Beside her, Greg’s back was turned, his breathing steady. Asleep. Or pretending.
She used to reach for him in the night, nestling into the warmth of his body. Now, the space between them stretched wide, a silent, invisible trench neither dared to cross.
A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house. Outside, the wind rattled the window, but Greg didn't stir. Tamara swallowed. Had it been this way for months? A year? She tried to remember the last time they had spoken about something real—something beyond schedules, bills, the weather. She turned her head slightly, watching the steady rise and fall of his shoulders.
"Greg?" Her voice barely broke the stillness.
No answer.
She exhaled, pressing her lips together, then turned onto her side, mirroring his position. They were two bodies lying inches apart, yet the distance between them was immeasurable.
Once, they had talked about everything—how he liked his coffee black but sometimes added cream when he wanted to feel indulgent, how she hated the way the city sounded at night but loved the smell of rain on pavement. Now, silence was their only routine.
A lump formed in her throat. She closed her eyes and listened to the tick of the clock.
2:08 AM.
The night stretched ahead, long and empty.
By morning, Greg was already in the kitchen, standing by the counter, pouring his coffee into the travel mug Tamara had given him two Christmases ago. The navy-blue ceramic had dulled with time, scratches along the handle, a faint chip near the rim. It used to be his favorite—he once said it felt "just right" in his hand. Now, he never acknowledged it. Just like her.
The coffee machine hissed as it dispensed the last drops, filling the silence. Tamara lingered in the doorway, watching him move with mechanical efficiency. No pause, no glance in her direction. He didn’t say good morning. Didn’t ask if she wanted any.
She rubbed her arms. "Don’t forget—the light bill's due tomorrow."
Greg zipped up his coat, eyes on his phone. "I won’t."
That was it. Their daily exchange. Factual. Transactional. Cold.
Tamara clenched her jaw, swallowing back the words that burned at her throat. Ask me how I slept. Tell me you love me. Say anything real. But she already knew how this would go. Every time she reached for more, Greg would stiffen, his face turning to stone, eyes flickering with impatience—like she was an obligation instead of a wife.
She had tried once. Sat across from him at the dinner table, hands curled around her untouched plate, voice shaking as she said, I miss you. Told him how the silence felt heavier than any fight, how she wanted to be more than two people coexisting under the same roof.
He nodded, distracted. Took a bite of his food. "I’ll try harder."
That was six months ago. Nothing changed. Nothing ever changed.
Tamara handled the groceries, the bills, the doctor’s appointments, the house repairs. Greg handled his job, his phone, and occasionally, when the overflowing trash became unbearable, he’d take out a bag—always with a heavy sigh, as if it were some grand sacrifice.
When her mother got sick, Tamara spent sleepless nights coordinating with doctors, filling out paperwork, and making sure her mother had everything she needed. Greg never asked how she was holding up. He never even offered to drive her to the hospital. But when his car broke down, his call came in the middle of her work meeting, urgent and impatient.
“I need you to pick me up.” No hello. No Are you busy?
She whispered an apology to her boss and grabbed her keys.
By the time she got there, he was pacing outside the auto shop, phone in hand, barely acknowledging her as he slid into the passenger seat.
“Gonna be expensive,” he grumbled. “They say the alternator’s shot.”
She waited for him to say something else. How was your day? Are you okay? Anything. But the silence stretched, thick and heavy.
Tamara used to believe love was about shared burdens—two people walking side by side, lifting together, making life easier for one another. But this? This wasn’t sharing.
This was her carrying everything while he walked ahead, hands free.
Tamara leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching Greg scroll through his phone. His face was bathed in the cold glow of the screen, eyes skimming whatever was more interesting than her.
“Greg,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “Do you even like me anymore?”
His thumb paused mid-scroll. He looked up, blinking as if she had spoken in a language he no longer understood.
“Why would you ask that?”
She let out a breath, pressing her nails into her palm. “Because I feel invisible. Like I could disappear, and you wouldn’t notice.”
He sighed—deep and exasperated—rubbing his temples like she had handed him a chore. “Tam, I’m tired. Work is exhausting. Can we not do this tonight?”
She had heard that before. She would hear it again.
The silence settled, thick and unmoving.
That night, as Greg lay beside her, his back to her as always, Tamara stared at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the refrigerator down the hall. The bed beneath her felt like stone. The space between them, an ever-expanding abyss.
Once, marriage had felt like an unspoken promise—of warmth, of partnership, of carrying the weight of life together. Now, it was a contract, binding her to a role that had lost all meaning.
She turned on her side, staring at his unmoving silhouette. The man who had once memorized the way she took her tea now barely registered her presence.
As the clock struck 2:07 AM again, the truth settled in her bones.
She wasn’t in a marriage. She was in servitude.
And as she whispered, “I can’t do this anymore,” the only response was the sound of Greg’s steady, oblivious breathing.
Maybe that was answer enough.
The morning after Tamara whispered her truth into the dark, something in her shifted. Not all at once, but like the first crack in a dam.
Greg went through his usual motions—shower, coffee, keys jingling in his palm—without noticing the packed suitcase by the door. Without seeing her sitting at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a coffee mug she didn’t bother to sip from.
"I paid the light bill," he muttered, glancing at his phone.
She exhaled, more tired than angry now. "That’s not enough, Greg. It never was."
He looked up then, his brow creasing. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
Tamara pushed the mug away, stood, and grabbed the handle of her suitcase. "It means I’m done carrying this marriage alone."
For the first time in years, his mask of indifference faltered. But it was too late. Tamara had already walked to the door, already felt the relief blooming in her chest.
She stepped outside into the crisp morning air. And for the first time in a long time, she felt weightless.
