Atrophy Wife

Allison got the call that her father was killed in a car accident exactly an hour after she hung up on her boss for firing her.

Her fist tore through the pantry door as if it were papier-mâché.

Her labored breathing slowed.

Her eyes locked straight ahead, her arms still outstretched.

When she finally pulled back, blood peeked through her skin in several places, but none of the cuts were deep enough to require more than a bandaid.

Before I could say anything or offer any reassurance that life would be okay, my wife grumbled, leave.

Something in her voice told me I should listen.

As I crossed into the living room, Allison collapsed on the floor, pulling her knees to her face, and tears welled up but refused to fall.

Days passed in a blur.

Her anger took over.

Plates shattered against walls, doors slammed.

Picture frames fell and covered the floor with glass.

The remote control flew at the TV and hit the corner, a million pieces of plastic cascading to the floor.

and one battery ran to hide under the couch.

If something was small, breakable, and too close to my wife when the anger washed over her, odds are I replaced it that month.

Even our cat flew a couple of tons.

It got to be too much, and I knew what had to be done.

I first broached the idea of my wife seeing a therapist approximately 15 days after her father's funeral.

I spent the next 20 minutes picking up pieces of a vase and 40 minutes after that trying to fix the coffee table the vase had smashed into.

I didn't bring it up again after weeks, but when I saw her guzzle down an entire pot of coffee in less than 30 minutes, I saw the window of opportunity open.

I would confront her in the bathroom.

Nowhere to go.

Nothing close enough to destroy.

In my calmest voice, I carefully asked if she would have any interest... and seeing someone to help her with what she was feeling, or if I might help in any way.

For the first time in what felt like years, my wife slowly raised her head, locking in direct eye contact.