The Price of Love and the Value of Seeing Yourself | PeonyMagazine

 

The jewelry box sat on the dresser like a heavy monument to everything he thought he knew about me. It was expensive and predictably beautiful: a pearl necklace that felt more like a collar than a gift. For years, Valentine’s Day had arrived with the weight of these things. There were always large bouquets and dinner plans made months in advance. It was a glittering trade of stuff meant to fill the gap where our conversations used to be.

In our marriage, love was measured in gold and rose stems. He gave with a flourish, playing the role of the provider. But as I sat there, the steam from my tea blurring the mirror, I realized I was starving in a room full of cake.

The Invisible Debt

There is a specific kind of loneliness that exists in a comfortable life. It is the silence after a 2:00 AM panic attack when you realize your partner is sleeping soundly. He doesn’t know your world feels like it’s falling apart. Eventually, you stop asking for help because explaining why you need it is too exhausting to repeat.

For many women, gifts are used as a substitute for the harder work of actually paying attention. A gift is like a period at the end of a sentence; it finishes the thought. But I didn’t need a period. I needed a comma, a pause where he might ask, “How are you actually doing?” or “I noticed you’ve been quiet lately.”

I had spent years becoming a master of the polite smile and the grateful nod. I took care of everyone’s feelings and kept the family running, yet I felt like a ghost in my own home.

Learning to See Myself

Three days before Valentine’s Day, I walked into a simple shop downtown. In the back corner sat a small, hand-blown glass paperweight. Inside the glass was a swirl of blue and gold, like a storm caught in a moment of stillness.

It wasn’t valuable like the pearls were. It wouldn’t impress anyone. But when I held it, I felt a sharp pull in my chest. It reminded me of the woman I was before I became a mother or a wife.

I bought it. I didn’t wait for a special occasion, and I didn’t worry about the cost. Most importantly, I didn’t care what anyone else would think.

A Quiet Revolution

Opening that small, brown-paper package on Valentine’s morning was a turning point. The pearls stayed in their velvet box, unopened. As my fingers touched the cool glass, I wasn’t just holding an object; I was claiming the right to be seen.

More: https://peonymagazine.com/the-language-of-love/the-price-of-love/