I Can Read Your Mind

Jennifer's POV

I heard Peter's key in the front door when the kitchen clock read 9:07 PM. I kept my eyes on the sink, scrubbing the same damn pan I'd been working on for five minutes.

Fourteen hours. That's how long I'd been running today. Up at five to make breakfast, get my son Leo dressed and fed, drop him at school, then eight hours at the agency listening to Derek make comments about my ass and watching clients change their minds every five minutes. After work I drove straight to the hospital to wait forty minutes just to pick up Robert's blood pressure pills and diabetes medication.

White pills twice a day, yellow ones in the morning, orange vitamins after lunch. I know his medication schedule better than my own husband does.

"Is there food? I'm starving."

Peter's voice cut through the kitchen. I didn't turn around because I knew exactly what I'd see, wrinkled shirt, loosened tie, that look on his face that said he expected me to drop everything and take care of him.

"Leftovers are in the fridge. Microwave's right where you left it."

"What's with the attitude, Jen?"

Attitude. Jesus Christ. I finally turned around and looked at my husband. The man I used to think was handsome, who used to make me laugh until my sides hurt. Now he just looked tired and annoyed, and I realized I probably looked the same way to him.

"Peter, you've been home after nine every night this week. Leo waited up until eight tonight, asking when Daddy was coming home. He finally went to bed crying because he thought you forgot about his presentation today."

Peter began making excuses "I'm busting my ass to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. Can you give me a break here?"

"A break?" I actually laughed, but there wasn't anything funny about it. "I worked a full day, spent two hours dealing with your father's medical appointments, came home and made dinner, gave Leo a bath, read him four bedtime stories because he was upset about you missing his school thing, and I've been cleaning up this kitchen since seven-thirty. So no, Peter, I can't give you a break."

"That's just normal—"

"Normal?" The word came out louder. "Normal for who? Normal for you to work and come home whenever you feel like it? Normal for me to handle everything else?"

His jaw got that tight look. "I work sixty-hour weeks to pay for this house and Leo's school and everything else. I'm doing my part."

"And I work forty hours plus everything here at home plus taking care of your parents." My hands started shaking and I gripped the counter. "Your mother called today. She's coming over tomorrow and wants me to cook that pork dish she likes. She spent ten minutes telling Mrs. Thomas that I'm just some advertising girl who can't cook worth a damn."

"She's just old, she doesn't mean—"

"Stop. Don't you dare tell me she doesn't mean it or that I'm being sensitive. She's been tearing me down for eight years, Peter. Eight goddamn years of telling me I don't deserve you and that I'm not good enough for her perfect son."

Peter looked away from me then, which hurt worse than if he'd yelled back.

"Why don't you ever defend me? Just once, why can't you tell your mother to back off and let me breathe?"

"She's sixty-eight years old, Jennifer. She says stuff sometimes but she doesn't mean any harm."

"She's sixty-eight, not senile. She knows exactly what she's doing." I turned back to the sink because I couldn't look at him anymore. "Forget it. I'm done fighting about this."

We stood there in silence and I could hear him breathing behind me, probably trying to figure out how to make this go away without actually dealing with any of it.

This is us now. Two people who can't even have a real fight because we're too damn tired to see it through.

"I'm going upstairs."

"Good night."

I listened to his footsteps on the stairs and then I was alone with the dishes and the humming refrigerator and eight years of disappointment sitting on my chest.

I stood there staring at my reflection in the kitchen window, trying to remember when I turned into this person. When did I become the woman who resents her own husband? I used to laugh at his stupid jokes and feel excited when I heard his car in the driveway. Now I just feel tired all the time, and angry, and like I'm drowning while he hands me more rocks.

The next morning was the usual chaos. Leo needed breakfast, Peter rushed out early for some meeting, and I went through the motions of pretending everything was fine. Thankfully, Peter’s mother called to postpone her visit, giving me a small reprieve. Around ten, I was folding laundry in the living room when I caught Leo in the corner with my phone.

"Leo, what are you doing with my phone?"

He jumped and nearly dropped it. "Nothing, Mommy. I was just looking at something."

He had that guilty face he gets when he's been sneaking cookies before dinner, but this felt different.

"Let me see."

He handed it over reluctantly. The screen showed some YouTube video of a cheesy game show with a couple sitting under this ridiculous metal helmet thing.

"Is your marriage in crisis? Do you and your spouse feel like strangers? Our revolutionary Mind-Reading Machine can help you rediscover the love you've lost! Call now to apply for 'I Can Read Your Heart!' Give your relationship the miracle it deserves!"

My stomach dropped. "Leo..."

"I know you and Daddy are sad all the time," he said, and his voice was so small it broke my heart. "I hear you crying at night sometimes. I thought maybe if you could see what Daddy's thinking, and he could see what you're thinking, then you'd stop being mad at each other."

I almost dropped the phone. My six-year-old baby knows his parents' marriage is falling apart and he's trying to fix us.

I knelt down in front of him and pulled him close. "Oh sweetie."

"I don't want you to get divorced like Tommy's parents. Please don't leave Daddy. Please don't leave me."

That's when I lost it. My little boy has been carrying this worry around, trying to figure out how to save his family.

"We're not going anywhere, baby," I whispered into his hair.

Three days later my phone rang.

"Mrs. Morgan? This is Sarah from 'I Can Read Your Heart!' Congratulations - you and your husband have been selected for our show!"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Your son Leo sent us an application. He wrote us the sweetest letter about how much he loves you both and wants you to be happy together."

Oh God. "I didn't sign anything—"

"The letter was just heartbreaking, Mrs. Morgan. He said, 'My mommy works really hard and she's always tired. My daddy works really hard too and he's always stressed. They used to laugh together but now they just look sad all the time. Please help them remember how to love each other again.'"

I sat down hard on the couch and felt like I might throw up.

"We'd love to have you both on this Saturday. Our Mind-Reading Machine has saved hundreds of marriages. What do you think?"

What do I think? I think my six-year-old is more mature than both his parents put together. I think we've screwed up so badly that our kid is begging strangers on TV to save us.

"I need to talk to my husband first."

"Of course! We'll hold your spot. This could be exactly what your family needs."

That night after Leo was asleep, I found Peter in his home office, still wearing his work clothes, staring at his laptop.

"We need to talk."

He looked up like he was expecting another fight. "If this is about my mother again—"

"It's not. Leo signed us up for some TV show. Some marriage therapy thing."