Fault Lines

by Emily Itami

The whole task was far beyond anything I was capable of, and the only possible outcome was failure of the most heartbreaking kind.

Japanese is insufficient for such apoplexy.

While I always meant to become a mother, I didn’t set out to become a housewife. I suppose that by the time I became a wife, a 家内, the kanji, reading “inside (内) the house (家),” meant it was inevitable; that it was written, in fact. Especially since I now had a 主人, a husband, or a “main (主) person (人).” A protagonist in my life, and I wasn’t it.

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad. Have you considered getting a grip?”

You can accept yourself, here, but only if you’re fulfilling your obligation to society.

I like Tatsu so much more now that I need him less.

This is what we always do: say nothing, accept our fate, the fact that we have always known that this was in the cards.

It makes me wonder what I don’t know about him too, and the thought makes me feel, oddly, closer to him; it reminds me of us at the beginning, when we chose what to reveal and had the courtesy of shielding each other from things that were unpalatable, of being our best selves for the other, instead of knowing too much.