The day I moved out of my husband’s house, the place I had hoped would be our home, he said something I knew meant nothing to him & everything to me.
“I mean, I need something to do.”
He was saying it in regards to whether he’d be taking care of the garden i labored & loved over & had huge plans for. But how much I loved that large garden wasn’t the important part. It was that I spent 9 fucking years begging him to do anything with me. I suggested politics, art, books, sports, home care, dog training & of course: gardening. He’d always agree with whatever I brought up, then just refuse to ever actually do it. I was always either bringing up his purported interest too soon or not soon engoug after he’d professed it. And I mean if I waited an hour or a year – his promises were like gun violence in that there was no appropriate time to discuss them, & in fact it was crass of me to even acknowledge
So when my incredibly overloaded but gardener’s brain noticed that my gorgeous hydrangeas, my first successful plant, had started to bud he laughed & gestured broadly towards the garden “you’re going to have to tell me how to take care of it, I’m going to need something to do.” He laughed.
It was never that he wasn’t interested in gardening. He wasn’t interested in spending time with me.