You were wandering down this little trail only days after you took your first steps. Fresh autumn leaves crunching beneath your stubby feet as your toddler self discovered the outdoors. You would sprint past the old oaks, shoes untied and coat dangling on one arm trying to make it to elementary school on time because your mother forgot to wake you up on time. You sat on that one lonely bench, smoking your cares away on school nights.
You had a connection with that little pathway. It was a happy place for you. No, much more than a happy place. A haven. That little pathway saved you, and you loved it for that.
When you went away to college, you thought of those woods every day. And if you had any spare time, you would leave your car just out of sight from your old house so you could take a walk in the woods. If your mother saw you on her property, she would lose it.
You were over the moon when you inherited that house, just months after we’d gotten married. We were living in a cramped apartment at that time, because we couldn’t find a house we could afford.
I never understood why you loved that little path so much. You tried to get me to fall in love with it, convincing me to use it for my morning runs and decorating the park bench to surprise me with a date.
I was happy it made you happy, but I didn’t feel anything towards it. That wasn’t enough for you, though.
That love became obsession. Sweetness turned sour. You began to neglect your job, the house, and worst, our infant son. I hoped that when you were fired, some sense would be knocked into you. But it only fueled your passion.
Hours were spent pacing up and down that trail. I watched you disappear and reappear again every couple of minutes, lost in thought. You only ever came inside to sleep, but occasionally you would opt to sleep outside on the park bench. I tried to retrieve you a couple of times, but you only yelled and shooed me away.
When I signed you up for therapy, you refused to go. I had to basically drag you there whilst you had a tantrum. I dropped the idea after a couple sessions with no progress. My patience was dwindling fast.
The last straw was the business trip I went on. I gave you specific instructions on what chores had to be done, such as taking care of the baby, cleaning the house, and feeding herself. This would have been her daily routine months prior. I almost cried as I pulled out of our driveway. Would you be able to take care of yourself? Would you be able to take care of our child? No. The answer was no.
As soon as I stepped into the house, I heard crying, You hadn’t fed the baby for all of that day. In fact, you hadn’t been in the house when I arrived. After feeding him a large helping of mashed potatoes, I marched out into our back garden. We both yelled a lot. We almost attacked each other. The neighbors had to intervene. They’d known what was going on with my wife. ‘It’s the talk of the town!’ they told me. Embarrassed. Heartbroken. Afraid. Furious.
That night after I’d finally gotten you to sleep in the house, I grabbed a shovel from our shed and got to work. I spent hours letting all my anger out, ripping apart the one thing that you loved more than me. I sawed apart the bench and threw it in the kindling pile. I took down the fairy lights and threw them in the garbage.
By sunrise, it was ruined. So ruined that I could have told someone there was an earthquake and they would believe me. Stupid damn trail. For years we had been competing for your love. And now that I had won, I’d get to have you all to myself. If only it were that simple.
The second I’d dug my shovel into the soft soil, you stopped loving me. I wouldn’t get to spend the rest of my days loving you. And our son, our poor son, he’d never grow up with a mom and dad who loved each other.
I blame myself for letting you convince me to move here. I blame myself for letting you attach yourself to an inanimate object.
Now I watch as you pat down dirt back into the path with the same shovel I used to dig it out. I can’t do anything about it now, and that makes you happy. I watch from afar as you pour dirt onto my lifeless face and smoothen it out with the same shovel that beat me to death last night.
Although your love for me is no more, mine will never vanish, even in the afterlife. I hope that damned little path will make a better father to our son than me.