The One Who Stays

The house hums.
Not loud enough to notice, just enough to remind him it’s empty — Again.
He’s lost count of how many nights sound like this one.

The rain has been steady for hours.
Thin, silver lines slide down the window.
Every so often, a low rumble rolls through the sky: far enough away not to shake the house, close enough to make him look up.

A plate clinks into the drying rack.
He wipes his hands on a towel that’s been folded too many times to still be dry.

1:37.
The clock glows against the quiet.

She’s still not back.

Nights like this had a rhythm.
|Same hour, same silence, same ache that never learned its lesson.

He told himself not to count the minutes.
But his body does it anyway: breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat.

He tries calling again.
It goes straight to voicemail.

 “...I’m busy and can’t come to the phone right now, please leave a mess…”

He ends the call before it finishes.

“I know,” he whispers to himself.

He told himself maybe her phone died.
But deep down, he knows the truth.

The thought of where she is flickers in his mind, uninvited.
A face.
A hand on her back that isn’t his.

He’s angry.
Not the kind of anger that wants revenge.
A jealous kind of ache, a grief that sits deep in the heart.

He exhales. Long and slow.
The water from the tap runs warm, then cold, then stops.

He dries another dish.
Then another.
Anything to try and distract himself.

He thinks of her laugh, the one that fills a room like sunlight.
A faint smile finds him as he lingers on the thought.

A car passes outside.
Headlights stretch across the window, fade and disappear.

He almost misses the quiet slide of a key.
The door opens just wide enough to slip through.

She’s careful not to make any noise.
He can see her shape, small and shadowed.
Framed by the dim light spilling from the kitchen, she freezes.

For a second, she doesn’t know if he’s there.
Then she does.
Her shoulders tighten.
The guilt in her breath fills the doorway before she speaks.

He doesn’t move.
He doesn’t need to.
Every inch of the room carries what he feels.

The rain beats softly outside.
The counter light hums between them.

She drops her keys on the table, a sound too loud for how quiet she was trying to be.
“You’re still up,” she manages.
He nods. Nothing more.

Her hair is damp, plastered against her face.
Mascara smudged, eyes hollowed from the night.
Her jacket clings to her like she had walked home through the storm.
And yet, even like this, especially like this, she’s beautiful.

He remembers. All of it.

How her face lights up when she laughs.
The way she’d run her hands across his shoulders when words weren’t enough.
He still sees all of it.
The woman he chose. The one he loves.
The smile finds its way back onto his face.

Her eyes don’t rise to meet his.
She sets her purse down, slowly, as if it were made of glass.
Then stands, unsure if she’s supposed to stay or flee.

The silence stretches.
Testing their hearts.

He looks at her — really looks.
Every detail.
The slumping of her shoulders.
The faint tremble in her hands.
The tear in the corner of her eye she doesn’t realize has fallen.

He should feel rage.
Disgust.
The instinct to pull away.

He takes a slow breath.

Her jacket drips a thin trail of rainwater onto the floor.
He notices and quietly steps forward, towel still in hand.

The floor creaks beneath his steps, the sound impossibly loud against the penetrating silence.

She stares at the ground.
Bracing for a wave of anger that never comes.

When he reaches her, she flinches.
He doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t speak.

He just wraps his arms around her.

For a moment, she freezes.
Then the dam breaks.
Her body collapses against his chest: sobbing, shaking, falling apart.

He holds her the way he’s held her a thousand times.
Like she never left.

Her words tumble between breaths:
“I’m sorry I...”
“I didn’t mean…”
“I just…”

He presses her head to his shoulder.
“I know,” he whispers.
“I know.”

She cries harder.
He holds her tighter.
The sound of her breathing fills the room.
And the house that had felt so quiet starts to sing once again.

Love like this doesn’t make sense until you realize who is who in the story.
You’re not the one waiting up.
You’re the one coming home.

The same desire that once pulled you toward other lovers was really the echo of this moment: the ache to be wanted, to be known, to be held.
You kept leaving home in search of something you already had.

You’ve walked through that door before: heart racing, excuses rehearsed, eyes on the floor.
You expected anger, but found arms instead.
You expected rejection, but were met with a whispered “I know.”

That’s the sound of grace.
Grace that doesn’t ignore but heals.
Grace that doesn’t demand penance, it gives presence.

This is covenant love.
The kind that keeps the light on.
The kind that waits.
The kind that will dry your tears.

That’s who Jesus is.
The faithful spouse.
The one who sees you, not for the distance you’ve traveled, but for the home you’re still welcome in.

So when you find yourself standing in the doorway, unsure of what comes next, don’t run.

Let Him hold you.

The house still sings your name.

Until next time,
Addison