I returned to my room as quickly as I could. Although I was supposed to stay there that night, the thought of meeting any of those people during breakfast made me throw up. I put all my stuff in my little weekend bag—the same one I took to the hospital when my daughter was born—and rushed to the reception to check out.
“Won’t you stay the night with us?” said the woman before me, who couldn't be more than twenty-five. “Wasn’t everything as expected?”
I was mortified. How could I explain why I needed to leave? How could I tell her I had to run away because, although I was proud of my reaction, an avalanche of shame had fallen over me?
“No, yes, sorry, but there was an emergency.”
“God, I hope everything’s okay.”
“Yes, don’t worry, it’s kids’ stuff… You know, kids…” I lied. People tend to believe that little rascals could be responsible for the downfall of civilization, let alone the home of two full-time teachers. That was an easy out, until I realized she was staring at me as I would do with a chocolate cake: way too much. Then, she smiled and shrugged.
“I have no kids; I’m too young, you know?” she said, showing me her hand with no rings on it.
Twenty-five, she’s probably twenty-five. I thought. I had no kids at that age either. I had no babies and no intention to have any. I just wanted to have a stable age and a toned body, but I didn’t have either.
It took me more than 20 years to become what I wanted, and in less than an hour, I had thrown it all, my career, out the window.
“Maybe one day,” I said.
“ I hope so,” she replied.
We both knew that wouldn’t happen. I didn’t look like someone who could spare the money for that kind of hotel, and I wasn’t willing to spend a single second more in that place. What the hell have I done? What was I gonna say at home?
When I left the hotel, the rain caught me by surprise. Like my mood, the sky had turned dark. A gust of wind slapped me in the face, and the fat raindrops made me realize things can always get worse. I took a taxi to the station without even checking in advance when I could catch the next train home. The truth was that I didn’t care. Any place was better than that because the thought of walking by anyone who could recognize my face haunted me
In the few seconds it took me to go from the car to the station, I got soaked, and standing in line for a ticket for almost half an hour didn’t improve my mood. I was cold and tired, and after paying a fare that was way too high for the ride I’d been given, I found myself on a slow and outdated train that stopped in every city, town, village, and doghouse between that place and my destination. I spent four hours watching people get on and off, mostly adults. A few of them seemed to be finishing a long work week, while others looked much more festive. After all, it was a Friday night. For a bit, it made me remember all those times I’d done something similar with my friends, when I left the house without a worry about the time to come back, or about scheduled breakfasts, homework, or chores to take care of.
Once upon a time, I was convinced that my life experiences, challenges, and achievements could turn into a good—and inspirational—book, but the truth is, my story wasn’t all that interesting after all. Years later, I couldn’t find anything interesting about someone who took too long to finish her degree and even longer to secure the job she wanted. No one would want to read about all the times I felt like a complete failure or accepted miserable jobs—the only ones compatible with the study to prepare for the exams to become a public worker. I wouldn’t want to read that book.
The train station was deserted, and of course, no one was waiting for me because I hadn’t dared to call my husband to tell him what had happened. At least it doesn’t rain, I thought, trying to convince myself that things would get better. That’s what people do in moments of despair: lie to themselves. I could have taken a taxi, but I felt like walking, so that’s what I did. I walked for two hours with my bag and all my heavy thoughts, and right now I cannot say which was more difficult to carry.
It was 5 a.m. when I arrived home. I opened the door, took off my shoes and coat, and climbed the stairs like a mouse, hoping I wouldn’t wake anyone. I arrived at my bedroom and found my dear husband sleeping like a rock, attached to that monstrous machine his doctor had recommended a couple of years before. I’d never loved his snoring, but after a couple of scares when I saw my future as a single woman raising our two young children, the machine became the third wheel in our bed. Not precisely the ménage à trois I’d ever expected, but convenient, life-saving, and… noisy.
I stared at him, my dear husband, life partner, the man I’d chosen to spend the rest of my life with, and thought about all the hard times we’d gone through together. We’d met in the first year of university, studied the same course, and bonded over the academic challenges. Months later, after several parties and a few more all-nighters in the library to study for our exams, he declared his love for me, surrounded by empty coffee cups and with the nervous system of someone who had consumed a year's worth of caffeine in one night. The poor thing was so anxious that I couldn’t help but giggle—I wasn’t in my best state either—and since that day, we've been together. He had seen me in my high and low moments before we married. Challenges arose when we bought our house, had our children, and faced professional doubts and uncertainties. Many years later, we’d become two teachers with stable jobs, packed schedules, and a family to take care of. I had always dreamt about it, the moment of having “it” all. I never thought I would destroy all that by punching someone in the nose. No one ever told me it would be so easy.
“What are you doing here?” I heard.
My daughter stood in the doorway in her pajamas. She was her father’s face at any moment of the day, but right there, scratching both her head and her butt, with that sleepy face, I would dare anyone in the universe to say she wasn’t his flesh and blood.
“Go back to sleep; it is too early,” I said to her, who looked at her father and me, confused.
“Why are you here?” She replied.
“I came early, don’t worry.”
“We ate burgers, and we had diarrhea,” she said in a way too happy tone for someone describing such a gruesome scene.
“It’s okay, sweetie.”
“Dad said you’d help to clean better later,” she added, and I wondered what would happen if I disconnected the machine’s cable.
“Yes, sure, don’t worry,” I replied. That’s how important I was at home; that’s how reliable.
“Mum, have to pee now,” added the little one.
“Sure, go on, please,” I replied, wondering how much and what exactly I would have to face once I decided to visit the bathroom myself.
Still, I decided to give myself some time to relax before taking on my responsibilities as a mother at home, and looked at my sleeping husband. I approached his side of the bed and stared at him while he snored lightly. For a second, he looked so cute that I leaned in to kiss him on the forehead, but as soon as I moved, I startled him; he jerked his head and headbutted me.
I stepped back, and he woke up slightly confused, probably because his head hurt as much as mine did. I rubbed my head with the palm of my hand, convinced I would have a bump in less than a minute, when my home version of Darth Vader took off his mask and decided to talk to me.
“You’re here!” he said, with a mix of confusion and happiness. Sometimes he reminded me of an eager puppy.
“Yes, I am here,” I replied, still rubbing my skin, which seemed to be pumping blood.
“I thought you would only arrive here in the afternoon. I was planning to call you to ask you if you wanted me to pick you up at the station… I didn’t sleep too much, right? It seems early…“
“Yeah, well, that’s not necessary now, don’t worry, thanks anyhow. And yes, it is early.”
“What time is it?” he asked, looking around, probably trying to see where he had left his phone the night before.
I looked at my watch.
“It’s six.”
“In the morning?”
“Don’t worry, we have kids; there’s no way on Earth they would let you skip breakfast.”
“Breakfast?” Someone else said from the door.
“Not yet, Eva, go to sleep.”
“I already peed!”
“Cool, awesome, but it is too soon for you to be up.”
“Can I watch videos on my tablet?”
Another lost battle, I thought. Technology was supposed to make our lives easier, not a constant source of discussions about what channels were good or not and how much time could fry our kids’ tender brains.
“Sure, whatever, but please don’t wake up your brother,” I whispered.
“And if Dani wants to pee?”
“Then he has to go to the toilet, of course!” I replied, louder than expected.
Eva did not reply. She walked away, probably because she knew it was too early to tempt fate, and I would confiscate her tablet if she kept testing my limits.
“It is really early,” said Manuel, my dear husband. “How did you come home? Did anyone bring you?”
“I was able to bring myself in. I walked, took the train, and took a taxi. I knew the order mattered, and I wasn’t telling him the whole truth, but I also knew he would freak out if I told him about my night walk to get home.
“Okay, that’s good too, I guess. By the way, did you win? That’s why you came so early? Do we have to celebrate?” he said, lifting the duvet and showing me his boxers, the pair I’d asked him to throw away a million times before— though I’m sure he was not interested in my opinion about his fashion choices in bed.
There it was, the question I didn’t want to answer, the one I couldn’t avoid.
“Yes, I won, but then, I didn’t,” I said, completely aware that my response wasn’t the best for someone who had just been awakened.
“What? Can you repeat? I’m not sure if I understood. It must be the machine,” he said as he pressed the switch button. Then, there was silence… and more questions. “What do you mean?”
I took a deep breath and tried to tell my story, but it was hard because he kept interrupting me whenever I paused.
“I was about to get the award; I got the most votes from the jury.”
“That’s awesome! Celebration?” He said, sitting in bed and giving me “the stare.” Any woman in the world knows what that look means, and I did, but right then, I couldn’t care less about whatever he wanted.
“But then, I didn’t because I was put on probation.”
“Why? What did you do? What can someone like you do? What did you say in your speech?”
“There was no speech.”
“Not even a speech? Again, what did you do?”
“I sucker-punched the head of the jury.”
