MY HUSBAND NEVER TREATS ME WITH AFFECTION, NOT ONCE! We have shared years, yet I feel reduced to the status of his personal attendant. I tidy his disarray, prepare his breakfast, exert myself tirelessly – and for what? No acknowledgment, no tender phrases, no caresses, UTTERLY NOTHING!
I commenced absconding merely to escape his presence. Each Saturday, I would procure a loaf from the bakery and proceed to nourish the pigeons. I realize this will sound preposterous, but attend to my words. I was seated there, dispensing breadcrumbs as usual, when an unfamiliar pigeon descended. Distinct from the others, it exhibited no apprehension towards me whatsoever. It settled directly beside me, presenting its back. Subsequently, I discerned a small scroll affixed to its leg, inscribed with the directive, “FOLLOW ME.”
So, indeed, I trailed the feathered messenger. And upon recognizing upon whose shoulder it alighted, I completely lost my composure.
“I was hoping you’d receive my message,” the man articulated……upon whose shoulder it alighted, I completely lost my composure.
“I was hoping you’d receive my message,” the man articulated, and as he turned, my breath hitched in my throat. It was him. My husband. But… different. Gone was the usual distracted air, the preoccupied frown. In its place was a gentle smile, a vulnerability I hadn’t witnessed in years, perhaps ever. He was dressed in clothes I’d never seen him wear – soft, worn denim and a simple, open-necked shirt. He looked… younger, freer. And the pigeons flocked around him, unafraid, just as they had around me.
I stared, speechless, a maelstrom of emotions churning within me. Confusion warred with a flicker of something… hope? “You… you sent the pigeon?” I finally managed to stammer, my voice barely a whisper.
He nodded, his gaze earnest. “I did. I needed to find a way to… to reach you. I’ve seen you, you know. Every Saturday. Feeding the birds. And I’ve seen… the light go out in your eyes at home.”
Tears pricked at my eyelids. “You… you noticed?” The question was laden with years of unspoken pain, of yearning for the smallest sign of his awareness.
He stepped closer, his hand hovering hesitantly before gently resting on my arm – a touch, a real touch, the first in what felt like an eternity. “Of course, I noticed. How could I not? You are… you are everything to me.”
His words, so simple, so unexpected, felt like a balm on a raw wound. “But… but you never show it,” I choked out, the dam of my carefully constructed composure finally breaking. “You treat me like… like furniture. Someone who simply takes care of things.”
He winced, his grip on my arm tightening slightly. “And I’ve been a fool. A blind, selfish fool. I got so caught up in… in my own world, my own routines, that I completely neglected the most precious thing in my life – you.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “Seeing you here, with the pigeons, finding solace in these creatures… it broke my heart. I realized I was losing you, if I hadn’t already.”
He gestured to the pigeons, now cooing softly at our feet. “I remembered how much you love animals. How gentle you are. And I thought… maybe, just maybe, if I could reach you in a way that resonated with you, a way that was… different… you might listen.”
He reached into his pocket and produced a small, worn notebook. “I’ve been writing,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “Trying to… to understand. To express what I’ve failed to show you for so long.” He opened the notebook and offered it to me.
Hesitantly, I took it. The pages were filled with his handwriting, not the hurried, functional script I was used to, but something softer, more deliberate. I glanced at a page – words about sunsets, about the quiet strength he saw in me, about the emptiness he felt when I was distant. Words of love, of regret, of longing. Words I never imagined he was capable of uttering, let alone writing.
Tears streamed down my face now, not tears of anger or frustration, but tears of something akin to relief, to a fragile, burgeoning hope. “Why… why pigeons?” I asked, my voice thick with emotion.
He smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes. “Because they are messengers. And because they are always there, unnoticed, just like… just like you felt.” He took my hand, his touch surprisingly firm and reassuring. “I want to change. I want to be the husband you deserve. I want to show you, not just tell you, how much you mean to me.”
We stood there, amidst the cooing pigeons, hand in hand, the weight of years of neglect beginning to lift. The journey ahead wouldn’t be easy, I knew that. But for the first time in a long time, I saw a glimmer of possibility, a chance to rebuild, to rediscover the connection we had lost. The pigeon, my feathered messenger, had delivered more than just a scroll; it had delivered a message of hope, a message that perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn’t too late after all. And as I looked into my husband’s eyes, filled with a vulnerability I’d never seen before, I dared to believe that maybe, just maybe, we could find our way back to each other.