MairieWays

04/04/2026

This is how it feels like

You were in the kitchen in my mind —
preparing dinner for us and our little girl,
smiling as you set the table
as if care came naturally to you.

I could almost smell the fresh meal,
feel the softness of that imagined evening.
Beside me I pictured our daughter —
glowing with pride as she watched you
serve her favorite macaroni
with the kind of father-love
movies make us believe exists.

You stood there in that apron in my head,
proud and gentle,
unrushed, unangered, unsharp —
safe.

But that scene lives only in the imagined places.
Reality does not land that way.

Because in real life,
the kitchen is quiet not from peace
but from tension.
Our daughter does not beam —
she flinches.
Words in this house are not soft —
they are thrown, loud, heated,
landing like stones on walls and bodies that cannot block.

In my reality, there is no apron moment —
only your raised voice,
your temper filling the corners of the room,
her small shoulders shrinking without protest,
my mouth staying still to keep the storm from growing.

The tenderness I pictured
never makes it out of my imagination —
here, it plays in reverse.
Not a home warmed by care,
but a home trained to survive it.

And the saddest part is not that it never happened —
but that I still find myself wishing for the version
that only exists in my head.

-Mairie

04/04/2026

RED FLAG — SPOKEN WORD

They tell us to watch for red flags —
anger that tastes like metal in the mouth,
hands that only reach when they want,
apologies shaped like excuses.
Yes, we learned to spot the danger…
but they never taught us to name the safe.

So let me tell you what she dreams of —
not a perfect love,
not a palace,
not a prince…
just a man who knows that gentleness is strength.

She wants a voice that doesn’t rise to dominate,
but drops low to understand.
A silence that is not a weapon,
but a hallway where both can breathe
before meeting again without knives in their tongues.

She wants a man whose first reflex is not to win,
but to repair.
Who doesn’t wait for her to beg for effort —
who sees what’s breaking while it’s still soft,
before wounds calcify into resentments.

She wants no slammed doors,
no chairs kicked because the world was unfair that day,
no love that vanishes when tired
and returns only when convenient.
She wants the mundane heroism:
consistency.
A simple, stubborn choosing of her —
even on days she is not easy to love.

She doesn’t crave flowers pressed to Instagram proof —
she craves a home where she does not have to shrink to survive.
A room where she can speak all her truth
without being punished for honesty.
A home where her nervous system unclenches at the door.
Where marriage does not feel like exile from herself.

She wants a partner — not a king, not a judge, not a parent.
Someone who shares the weight of real life —
the bills, the bad news, the breakdowns, the bad days —
not someone who arrives only for the highlight reel.

She wants a man who can say,
“I was wrong,”
without choking on pride.
Who believes that the goal is not to be right,
but to be kind —
and to stay on the same side of the fight.

She wants a love that doesn’t bruise the spirit.
A commitment that doesn’t cost her identity.
A marriage in which she does not disappear
in order to keep the peace.

Call it a green flag, call it rare, call it almost myth —
but it exists:
a love that does not ask a woman to bleed for belonging.
A marriage that still feels like freedom —
where safety is not begged for,
where respect is not a reward,
where love is not a performance…
but a practice,
daily,
quiet,
real.

⸻
-Mairie

25/10/2025