Will You Wait for Me?

“Will you wait for me?” The words echoed in my ears, raw and pleading, as I pressed my forehead to the cool bathroom mirror. My hands trembled slightly, tracing the blue shadows under my eyes. Had it really been thirty years since I last heard that question from someone else’s mouth? Now, it was my own voice in my head, small and desperate.

“Wanda, are you coming? We’re going to be late!” My husband Greg’s voice boomed from down the hall. There was tension in his tone—impatience, maybe, or just the fatigue of two decades spent raising kids and holding together a life that neither of us had planned to feel so… empty.

“Just a minute!” I called back. I forced a smile, pulling at the corners of my lips in the mirror, but it fell away almost instantly. I was tired—tired of pretending, tired of waiting for something to change. Tired of the silence that had crept into our house since Emily left for college last fall. Our youngest, gone. The rooms felt larger, echoing with memories and arguments and laughter that faded too quickly.

I ran my fingers through my graying hair, wishing I could smooth away the years as easily as stray strands. I thought of Mom, whose hands had been gentle, whose words had always been, “Love yourself in every version, Wanda.” But what was there to love now? The shadows under my eyes, the lines at my mouth, the ache in my chest every morning when I woke up to another day that felt just like the last.

Greg was waiting by the door, coat already on. “Did you lose track of time again?” he asked, not unkindly, but with that edge. The one that made me feel like a child, never quite enough.

“No, I’m ready,” I lied, grabbing my purse. We were headed to his brother’s birthday dinner, a family affair that always left me drained. I used to look forward to these things—when the kids were little, when everyone still talked to each other. Now, it was all surface smiles and old grudges, and I felt myself fading further into the background each time.

We drove in silence, the kind that’s thick and heavy, pressing on your chest. Greg tapped the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the road, while I stared out the window at the blur of winter trees. My phone buzzed—a text from Emily: “Miss you, Mom. Finals suck.”

I typed back, “Miss you too, sweetheart. You’ll do great. Call when you can?” My heart twisted. She hadn’t called in two weeks. I wondered if she was pulling away, if I’d failed her somehow. If I’d failed all of them.

At dinner, Greg’s family was loud, boisterous. His brother Jack slapped him on the back, jokes flying across the table. I sat between Greg and his sister June, who sipped wine and looked at me with that same pity she’d had since my layoff last year.

“How’s the job hunt?” she asked, voice syrupy sweet.

“Slow,” I admitted. “Nothing yet.”

June leaned in, softening her tone. “Maybe it’s a blessing, you know? More time to find yourself.”

I almost laughed. Find myself? At forty-nine, after years of mothering and working and holding it all together, was there anything left to find? Or was I just… what was left?

Greg’s hand found mine under the table, a rare gesture. I squeezed back, grateful and resentful all at once. He was trying, in his way. But we were both so lost—two strangers in an empty house, orbiting each other, afraid to speak the truth.

Later that night, back home, I sat on the edge of the bed, watching Greg undress. “Do you ever wish things were different?” I asked quietly.

He paused, his shirt half-off. “What do you mean?”

I swallowed. “I don’t know. That we’d done things differently. Or that…I was different.”

He sat beside me, silent for a long time. “I miss them, too,” he said finally. “The kids. The noise.”

I nodded, tears stinging my eyes. “I feel invisible, Greg. Like I’m waiting for something, but I don’t know what. Or who.”

He put his arm around me. “We’ll figure it out, Wanda. We have to.”

But even as he held me, I felt alone. Later, lying awake, I thought of my old friend Lisa, who’d left her marriage last year to travel the country in an RV. She sent me postcards from Idaho, New Mexico, places I’d only seen in movies. Sometimes I envied her courage. Sometimes I was terrified by it.

I got up and wandered the quiet house, touching the framed photos on the walls—the kids in grade school, Greg and me on our wedding day, all smiles and hope. Who was that woman? Did I even know her anymore?

I opened Emily’s old bedroom, sat on her bed, and let the tears come. I whispered into the darkness, “Will you wait for me?” Not sure who I was asking—Greg, my kids, or maybe the person I used to be.

By morning, I’d made a decision. I called Lisa. “Hey,” I said, my voice shaking. “Is your passenger seat still open?”

Lisa laughed, warm and familiar. “For you? Always.”

Greg didn’t understand at first. The kids were shocked. But I packed a small bag, promised to call, and—for the first time in decades—put myself first. As I waved goodbye, heart pounding, I wondered if I was brave or just desperate. Maybe both.

Now, as the highway stretches ahead, I catch my reflection in the window. Older, yes. Faded? Maybe. But not finished. Not yet.

What does it mean to love yourself in every version? Maybe it means never giving up on finding yourself again. Would you wait for someone who’s still searching for who they are? Or would you go looking, too?