I’m writing this because… well, because I can’t talk about it with anyone else, not really. Not here in Harmony Creek. Everyone knows everyone, you know? Like, if I told ol’ Jed down at the feed store, it’d be halfway to the next county by sunrise and Martha would be clucking about it at church. And my wife… she just wouldn’t get it. She’s strong, always has been. That’s one of the things I loved about her, still do. But sometimes… sometimes it feels like a wall, you know? Like I’m trying to whisper through a megaphone. I’m a stay-at-home dad now, which, in and of itself, is a whole thing around here. Most folks just scratch their heads. “So, you’re… between jobs, then?” they’ll ask, real slow, like I’m a bit dim. Nah, I’m not between jobs, I *am* the job. Our youngest, Josie, she’s got some special needs, nothing debilitating, just needs a lot of extra attention and appointments and whatnot. And my wife, she’s a nurse practitioner, makes good money, better than I ever did with my carpentry. So, it made sense. Logical. On paper, it’s PERFECT. But sometimes, when I’m pushing Josie on the swing out back, or scrubbing burnt oatmeal off the stove, I feel… small. Not like, physically small, obviously. Just… diminished. Less than. Like a piece of me got chipped away. And I know, I know it’s GOOD what I’m doing, taking care of our kids, supporting my wife. But there’s this voice, always there, saying, *’This ain’t what a man does.’* And it’s not even an outside voice, it’s *mine*. It’s stuck in my head like that awful country song they play at the diner. And this feeling, this… unmanly feeling, it just seeps into everything. Especially into the bedroom. That’s the real kicker. The part I can’t tell anyone. Not my wife, definitely not. Because she likes… she likes a man to be a MAN, you know? In charge. Dominant. She’s always been that way. She says it makes her feel cherished, protected. And I try, I REALLY try. I put on the face, the gruff voice, the whole nine yards. But it’s an act. Every single time. And it’s exhausting. More exhausting than chasing a toddler and a pre-teen all day. What I actually want… what I’ve always kinda wanted, even before we got married, is the opposite. I want to be… taken care of, sometimes. To not have to be the one who’s always leading. To just… let go. To let *her* decide. To be the one who’s… you know. Held. But saying that, even typing it, feels like a betrayal. Like I’m admitting to some deep, fundamental FLAW. I remember one time, early on, before kids, I tried to gently suggest something like that. She laughed. Not a mean laugh, just a light, breezy laugh. “Oh, honey,” she said, pulling me closer, “you’re so funny. You know I love it when you’re in charge.” And that was that. Door slammed shut. So now, when we get intimate, it’s like I’m performing. It’s not just about getting it up, it’s about putting on a whole DAMN SHOW. And I hate it. I hate that I’m lying to her, to myself. I hate that I feel this way. Like I’m broken. Like I’m not a proper man. And then she’ll say something afterwards, like, “God, you’re so strong,” or “You really know how to take control,” and I just have to nod and kiss her forehead and pretend that’s what I wanted, what I needed. But inside, I just feel this hollow ache. Like an empty well. I don’t know what to do. If I tell her, will she think I’m weird? Gross? Will she lose respect for me? Or worse, will she think I don’t love her? Because I do. I truly do. But this thing… it’s a wedge. And it’s getting bigger. Like a crack in the foundation of everything. And I just keep painting over it, hoping it’ll go away. But it never does. It’s always there, humming in the background. Like the cicadas in summer, you only notice them when everything else gets quiet. And it’s very, very quiet in my head right now. Except for that hum.