My Daughter Taught Me to Stop Chasing Love

I chased my husband for ten years.

In the end, it was my six-year-old daughter who taught me to let go.

That evening at dinner, I tried talking to Ethan again.

Ethan, want to take Daisy to the park on Saturday?

He didn't look up.

I was about to ask again.

Daisy suddenly cut me off: Mom, Dad doesn't want to talk to you. Can't you see that?

After Daisy finished dinner, I gave her a bath, told her two stories, and got her to sleep.

When I returned to the bedroom, Ethan was leaning against the headboard scrolling through his phone.

The blue light from the screen lit up his face.

He didn't even lift his eyelids.

In the past, I would've sat next to him and carefully ventured, "Ethan, can we talk?"

Then I'd get a "Talk about what?"

After that, I'd ramble on for ages while he'd say "Mm-hmm," roll over, and go to sleep.

And then I'd be left staring at his back, tears soaking into my pillow.

Tonight I didn't sit down next to him.

I grabbed a blanket and went to the study.

The folding bed in the study was something I bought last year.

At the time, I thought it could be a place to cool off if we ever fought.

But later I realized Ethan and I couldn't even fight.

Fighting requires two people.

He never engaged.

I lay on the folding bed, staring at the ceiling.

My phone lit up.

A message from my mom: Did my baby have a good day?

I replied: Pretty good.

For the past ten years, my reply to my mom was always "pretty good."

The messages I sent Ethan were always paragraphs upon paragraphs.

He wouldn't reply.

So I'd send another paragraph.

He still wouldn't reply.

So I'd call.

He'd hang up, so I'd wait by the door when he got off work.

My friends said I was too clingy.

He said I was too needy.

I thought maybe I had a problem too.

Chasing someone for ten years---how pathetic could you get?

But what Daisy said today was like someone striking a bell next to my ear.

A ringing sound, and something shattered.

Not heartbreak.

It was the shell of some obsession finally cracking.

That night, I slept surprisingly well.

No dreams, no tears, no waking up in the middle of the night to check if he'd replied.

The next morning when my alarm went off, I actually froze for a second.

Turns out you can sleep when you're not waiting for someone to text back.

The next day was Wednesday.

Every weekday morning before, I'd make breakfast for Ethan and set it on the table.

He never said thank you.

Occasionally he'd eat it.

More often, he'd grab a coffee and leave.

Today I only made breakfast for Daisy, then knelt down to braid her hair.

When Ethan came out, he glanced at the table.

He said nothing.

He grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge, picked up his briefcase, and left.

The sound of the door closing was identical to every one of the past two thousand days.

But for the first time, I didn't rush after him to say "Drive safe."

Daisy looked up at me.

"Mom, you didn't say goodbye to Dad today."

I smiled and pinched her cheek.

"Did Daisy say goodbye to Dad?"

She shook her head.

"Dad walked away too fast."

Yeah.

He always walked away fast.

And I'd been chasing for ten years without ever catching up once.

Ethan and I were college classmates.

He wasn't the most handsome guy, but he was clean-cut, quiet, and looked really cool when he focused during basketball games.

Every girl in the Literature department knew Madison was chasing Ethan.

He'd say, "You shouldn't wait. It's too late, it's not safe."

I'd say, "It's fine, I don't have anything else to do anyway."

In the winter of our senior year, he finally agreed to date me.

That day I cried in my rental apartment for an hour.

Happy tears.

Later I gradually realized he didn't say yes because he was touched.

He said yes because "there wasn't anyone more suitable anyway."

His mother said it once.

I heard it with my own ears.

"Ethan's been like this since he was little---never takes initiative. You chased him so persistently back then, so he just said yes."

She said it casually, like it was the most ordinary thing.

I stood in the kitchen doorway holding a plate of freshly cut fruit, my fingers gripping the edge of the plate.

The first year of marriage was okay.

Though he didn't talk much, at least on weekends he'd take walks with me.

When I said I wanted to see a movie, he'd complain it was a hassle but still go.

The turning point came after Daisy was born.

During postpartum recovery, I took care of the baby alone.

He was always working overtime, on business trips, at dinners---there was always a reason not to be home.

I'd be up all night breastfeeding until I broke down, and when I called him, he'd say, "Daisy has you, doesn't she?"

I asked if he could come home earlier.

He said, "Can you stop being like this? I'm tired too, you know."

"Like this"---what did he mean by that?

He walked out of the bedroom and glanced at me.

"What now?"

I said, "Can you just hold me?"

He sighed, turned around, and went back to the bedroom.

The door clicked shut.

That was the first time I felt that what separated us wasn't just a door.

It was thousands of miles.

But back then, I didn't stop.

I kept chasing, kept messaging, kept waiting.

I thought if I just tried a little harder, he'd turn around and look at me.

Ten years.

I chased for a full ten years.

Chased until I didn't even recognize myself anymore.

In college, I ranked first in my major.

My graduation project won honors, and my advisor recommended me to a design firm.

I didn't go.

Because Ethan had signed with a company in this city.

I thought being together was most important.

Later when Daisy was born, I quit my job to be a stay-at-home mom.

Ethan said, "It's better if you stay home anyway. Saves us from hiring a nanny."

That design firm later grew big and won several industry awards.

Occasionally I'd see their work on social media and stop to look for a long time.

Then I'd lock my screen and go back to washing baby bottles.

The change happened little by little.

The first week after I stopped chasing Ethan, I felt a bit out of sorts.

My hand would instinctively reach for my phone, wanting to open SnapChat to see if he'd replied.

Then I'd remember---I hadn't sent any messages.

I didn't send any, so naturally there was nothing to wait for.

It was a strange feeling.

Like a person who'd been running for ten years suddenly hitting the brakes.

Inertia kept you moving forward, but your feet had already stopped.

On the third day, I made a decision.

On my way home from work, instead of going straight home, I turned down a street I'd never taken before.

At the end of the street was a gym, orange light spilling through the glass doors.

I stood at the entrance for thirty seconds, then pushed the door open.

The receptionist asked if I wanted a trial class.

"I'll take an annual membership."

Three thousand six hundred dollars.

My hand didn't even shake when I swiped the card.

This was the first time I'd spent a significant amount of money on myself without messaging Ethan to say "I got a gym membership."

Before, if I spent more than two hundred dollars, I'd tell him proactively, like I was reporting to him.

His reaction was always the same: "Okay, if it makes you happy."

Now I stopped reporting.

On the fifth day, I pulled out that gray canvas bag from the corner.

Inside were my college sketches, design drafts, and that offer letter from the design firm.

The offer was long expired, of course, but the drafts remained.

When I opened the first page, I caught the smell of old paper.

Daisy came over to look.

"Did you draw this, Mom? It's so pretty!"

"Yeah, Mom used to draw."

"Used to? Can't you draw anymore?"

I looked at her earnest little face.

"I still can. I just haven't drawn in a long time."

That night after Daisy fell asleep, I cleared off the dining table, spread out paper, and drew.

My hand was rusty.

The lines weren't as clean as before.

But when I finished the last stroke, something inside me loosened.

Like a pipe that had been clogged for ages finally dripping out a drop of water.

During those two weeks, Ethan didn't notice a thing.

I stopped messaging him---he didn't ask "Why aren't you messaging me anymore?"

I stopped calling---he didn't call to ask "Why haven't you been calling lately?"

I stopped waiting by the door---he'd come home, change shoes, eat, scroll his phone, sleep.

Everything as usual.

Turned out my presence meant so little.

So little that I could disappear and he wouldn't even notice.

Before, I thought that was pathetic.

Now I thought---that's fine.

It meant that me not chasing him didn't affect him at all.

So what was the point of chasing him for ten years?

The point was: there was no point.

Those four words hurt more than any time he'd hung up on me.

But after the pain came a strange kind of relief.

My friend Sarah asked me to dinner.

She was the only college friend I'd stayed in touch with over the years.

After we sat down and ordered, she spoke first.

"You look better lately."

"Do I?"

"Yeah. Before, your first sentence to me was always 'He didn't reply to my messages again.' Today you didn't mention it."

I smiled slightly.

"I stopped chasing."

Sarah's hand froze mid-reach for her food.

"What did you say?"

"I said I'm not chasing Ethan anymore."

She put down her fork and looked at me carefully for five seconds.

Then she did something.

She applauded.

Right there in the steakhouse, with the neighboring tables looking over, she clapped three times loudly..

"Madison, that's the clearest thing you've said in ten years."

Her clapping left me a bit dazed, and also wanting to cry.

But I held it in.

The third week, Ethan's mother, Helen, came over.

Helen visited two or three times a year, staying about a week each time.

She wasn't a bad person, but she had a talent for saying the most hurtful things in the most casual tone.

The evening she arrived, she scanned the living room.

"Madison dear, why haven't you been tidying up the house lately? Didn't you used to keep everything spotless?"

Before, whenever she visited, I'd do a deep clean three days in advance.

I'd scrub the kitchen until it gleamed, fold towels by color, even sort Daisy's toys into storage bins.

This time I didn't.

Not on purpose.

It was because after work I went to the gym, then came home and drew for a while.

There wasn't enough time.

"Been busy lately," I said.

Helen didn't respond, but I noticed her glance at Ethan.

I knew that look well.

Translated: "Look at your wife, getting more and more out of line."

This time Ethan actually spoke up.

"Mom, it's fine. The house is pretty clean."

Helen smiled. "I didn't say anything."

The next day, while Ethan was out, Helen cornered me in the kitchen.

"Madison dear, is there some conflict between you and Ethan?"

"No."

"Then why aren't you talking to him anymore? You used to chat with him constantly."

My knife kept moving through the vegetables.

"Helen, you said it yourself before. You said I was too clingy, that men need space."

Helen's smile froze for a second.

"I said that for your own good. Between husband and wife, women shouldn't be too forward. You need to be a bit reserved."

I dumped the cut vegetables into a bowl.

"See, now I'm being reserved."

Helen looked at me for a while.

"Why are you talking like this, child? So passive-aggressive."

"I'm not being passive-aggressive, Helen. I'm really learning to be reserved."

Her mouth moved, but she didn't say anything more.

As I turned to wash the knife, I heard her mutter under her breath.

"Getting more and more disrespectful."

Before, hearing that would've made me panic, made me reflect on what I'd done wrong.

Now I just wanted to laugh.

"Disrespectful" meant: not easy to control anymore.

Helen left after five days.

Before leaving, she called Ethan out to the balcony for a fifteen-minute conversation.

I stayed in the living room coloring with Daisy.

I couldn't hear what they said.

But when Ethan came back in, his expression was complicated.

He stood next to me, like he wanted to say something.

I didn't look up.

He stood there for several seconds, then left.

That night, he asked me a question on his own initiative.

"Have you been angry at me lately?"

I was in the study drawing.

I didn't look up.

"No."

"Then why won't you talk to me anymore?"

I stopped my pen.

This question was really something.

I'd chased him for ten years, saying dozens of sentences every day.

He found me annoying.

I'd been quiet for three weeks, and now he was asking.

"I'm not refusing to talk to you." I kept drawing. "I just realized there's nothing much to say."

He froze.

That sentence was too familiar.

Because over the past ten years, he'd said it to me at least a hundred times.

He probably remembered too, because his expression changed.

But he didn't say anything more.

He turned and left.

Just like his past thousand turns and departures.

Only this time, the person left standing wasn't me.