After another episode on New Year’s Eve, the husband and the wife decided to sleep in separate bedrooms.

On New Year’s Day, the husband brought the spare single mattress to the study. The wife browsed online photos of therapists within 50 km of Melbourne. Her two criteria: A man, and handsome. The therapist would be obliged to listen to her, not cut her off, raise his voice, telling her it’s her fault, or reply with What’s the big deal? Is anyone gonna die? as her husband had said, when she doubted his decision on New Year’s Eve. In his most sympathetic voice—he has no choice, he’s getting paid—the therapist would offer solutions to her problems. She has problems. Faulty goods— her husband had said, as a joke. To her, it sounded as if she were the most notorious weed, a spade should dig into her roots, a hand should yank her out, so she could be completely eradicated. But the wife didn’t need any problem-solving. Being taken seriously by an attractive man who listens and nods would be enough. The rest of her wants? A caressing hand on her shoulder, a warm hug, a genuine compliment—she could fantasise a romantic story on her own. She didn’t need much. Over the years, she’d trained herself to become self-sufficient, which had earned her the title of ‘fiercely independent’. Because, who’s there to lean on?

The husband packed the wife’s books in boxes and moved them to their bedroom- the wife’s room now. He also asked their daughter to clear up her stuffed toys from the study. ‘You get to keep twenty of them, the rest are going in the bin’ was the given instruction. After bouts of sobbing and stomping and body hurling onto the rug, that number seemed impossible to reach. Who would you get rid of? Every toy was special, carrying a story; every toy was the girl’s child. The wife told her daughter that growing up, she’d only had one doll, not even one stuffed toy. The closest thing she’d had to it was a stuffed panda sewn onto a blue backpack. The daughter stopped crying for a moment, then started again, saying that she’d never had a panda toy. The husband rolled his eyes and said, ‘How about I give you 20 bucks?’ Still crying, the daughter began separating the toys into two piles. To ease the guilt, the wife said, ‘Maybe we can give them away to people we know. So when we visit them, we can still see the toys.’ The daughter agreed. The husband was given an owl that sat by his pillow; the wife was gifted a small penguin that fit in her palm. ‘Look, it’s so cuddly,’ the daughter said, hands cradling the little penguin, then passed it on to the wife. Stroking its soft fur, squeezing its plush belly as it sang Happy Birthday to You, the wife wished every day was her birthday.

That night, the wife found herself rubbing the penguin against her cheek, burying her nose in its fur. It smelled like her daughter. She kissed the penguin good night, then went into her daughter’s room, kissed her ‘sleeping beauty’ on the forehead. A gush of warmth surged through her veins.

The next morning, the daughter asked the husband and the wife if they liked their stuffed animals. The wife said she loved her penguin; the husband said the owl was ok. Later, he confided to the wife that the owl looked creepy, so he had tossed it into the wardrobe. For the first time in two days, the wife felt sorry for him, missing out on the love, and she smiled. She’d won.

             ‘Mummy, you can have the rest of my toys. I know you like them! See, now they won’t be separated!’ The daughter presented the toys neatly lined up in a row on her bed. The wife was content. She has started the year on a high note. A handsome therapist and nine of her daughter’s cuddly toys.

‘Well done,’ she congratulated herself and almost cried.

By Jing Cramb

Litro Magazine

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