Disclaimer: The Animorphs and all related things belong to K.A. Applegate and Scholastic, not me. I just want to hang out in their world.
He still cries when I hold him. That isn't supposed to happen. When a father holds his son, there is supposed to be some sort of energy, something inherent that comforts the baby, lets them know they are in the arms of the right person. Six months, and my arms still feel wrong to him.
I don't think she cheated on me. She loves me, just like I love her. That's sort of the problem. If she loves me in the same way I love her, then she is confused as hell. She looks at me sometimes, and I can see her trying to remember something, trying to see something different than what's in front of her. I don't know what she's looking for, and I don't think she knows either.
She re-painted the nursery last week. We had agreed on a light blue when we found out he was going to be a boy, but after a while she said it didn't look right. She went out and bought a bunch of new paint, all in shades of either red or yellow. I took him out to the park, spent a whole day walking him around, and returned to find her standing in the middle of the room, crying. The walls and ceiling were beautiful, rich blending shades of gold and scarlet. She was clutching the paint brush in one hand, wiping away tears with the other. She looked up at me and said "I don't know what it's supposed to be. I know it's important, but I don't know why." He loved it. He even seemed to sleep better than he did under the blue.
I remember the day I met her. I remember the day I married her. I remember every detail, every last touch, in a way that seems almost too complete. People don't absorb and retain everything. It feels like something I studied out of a textbook, instead of something I lived. My time with her is too set-in-stone. And I don't know why.
All I know is that at night I dream and the dreams are vivid and rich. There is a woman, a different woman, and her name is Megan, and the name alone feels warmer in my mind than the body of my wife beside me in bed. I have never met this woman, but I feel like I am supposed to be with her. Like I am supposed to be somewhere else, not looking down into a crib, into eyes that do not reflect anything familiar. I do not tell my wife any of this. I do not reveal my dreams, and she does not explain why she sometimes wakes up and, in the haze of sleep, calls me Alan.
I love my wife and son. At least, I think I do. But I do not know how much longer I can stay here. Everything just feels too strange.
[Heh heh heh.]
[Why do you laugh?]
[I just find it amusing. After thousands upon thousands of years of meddling, you do not know how to create happiness.]