I want you to know it’s a little fucked up
That I’m stuck here waiting, at times debating
Telling you that I’ve had it with you and your career
Me and the rest of the family here singing where’d you go?

"So you’re just gonna go."

"What the fuck else can I do?" you answer in a shout. "What do you want me to do? What is it that you suggest I do?"

"Not going would work."

"That’s not an option and you know it."

"It’s always an option," I say quietly. It’s an option you never take, but it is always an option.

"This is my job we’re talking about. Do you know how bad it would look if I just didn’t go?" You’re still shouting, not realizing that it’s not affecting your argument either way. You’re just waking up the baby.

"What about your family, Justin?"

"My job is what provides for this fucking family!"

"Provide your goddamn support! All we need is your fucking presence and we’ll be fine!" Great, now I’m yelling.

"You know good and damn well you wouldn’t be satisfied if you weren’t draped in Gucci and vacationing in St. Tropez every summer and winter."

"Justin, those kids don’t give a flying fuck about Gucci or country clubs or the nine million things your bring back for them on the rare occasion that you do come back to us. They want their father. They want to spend more than a weekend with you." I sigh loudly, thinking about the look on Christian’s face every time his father walks out of that door for another month on tour or another week of promotion. Luckily, Ty is too young to know exactly what’s going on, but I know that he feels the absence of his father, too. "Chris would be elated if you managed to pick him up from school one day. Just once."

"Don’t do this to me," you warn tersely. "Don’t act like I don’t love my kids, because you know those boys are my life."

"Well, prove it!" The anger in my voice is gone and all that’s left is pain. I’m pleading. "Don’t leave us."

"I have to." Your tone finally softens and you give me the look. Those mysterious blues, that I can never figure out. We’ve known each other eight years and I still can’t read those eyes, mainly because I always get lost in them. It’s that look that makes me give in every single time. It makes me think that it won’t be so bad; you’ll be back when you can and order will be restored in the Timberlake house. Until you leave again.

"You don’t have to," I correct you. "This is what you chose."

"Yeah, this is what you chose, too," you bite back. "I had the same job when we met seven years ago, the same popularity when we got married five years ago, so you have to live with the choices you made, too."

"Eight."

"What?"

"We met eight years ago."

"I think that’s pretty fucking irrelevant right now," you spit, picking up your bags in the process.

"You better not walk out that door."

"What do you not understand about the fact that I have to go! I have a flight to Barcelona in exactly two hours and it’s not gonna wait on me."

It’s that precise moment that Tyler screams at the top of his lungs, giving you a perfect opportunity to slip out of the door. "You wanna go see why your son is crying?"

"I don’t have time and you know it."

"No time, no time," I repeat with aggravation. "No time. I should get that shit fucking engraved on your wedding ring."

"Do you have to do this every time I leave?"

"Well you know, if you didn’t leave so much, you wouldn’t be so tired of hearing it." As if I’m not tired of saying it.

Holding back tears, I decide to go check on my baby since you won’t do it – since it’s so important that you leave. I race up the steps towards the nursery, finding our red-faced 4-month-old still crying and screaming for dear life. He’s probably pleading for his dad to stay, too, in his own little way.

He continues bawling as I gently pull him out of his crib, slowly stroking his back as we circle his large, royal blue room. I love this room so much. It’s been my favorite since we bought the house four years ago and decided that it would be Chris’s room. We thought baby blue was too typical, and that there was something very majestic about just blue. It’s soothing and natural, but still manages to be classy and even fun in its predictability. Truth be told, it was everything I loved about you when we first met.

But you’re not that man anymore, nor am I that woman – haven’t been for years – and I’m left clinging desperately to memories. I’m left trying to hold on to someone that I don’t know, for the sake of our family, while you try to get away as quickly as possible.

You walk into the nursery with us, with that same look in your eyes that I read as regretful that you have to leave, but convinced that it’s mandatory. I’m probably wrong, but that’s what I see when I look at you. "It’s just two weeks," you tell me.

"I know." That doesn’t make it any easier to deal with.

"I’ll call you as soon as I land." You approach me and Tyler and kiss us both on the forehead, knowing that always calms us both down. For a while, anyway. I just wish you knew how much your departure is killing us both.

I nod as I stare down at Ty. He looks so much like you that it hurts to even be with him sometimes. He has those eyes, too, you know. Or maybe you don’t know.

"Kiss Christian for me, okay?"

I nod again and go back to circling the room with Tyler. It’s easier when I don’t have to watch you physically walk out of the room. I already have to deal with Chris when he gets home from school, and you’d think that after all this time, I could hold back the tears when I tell him, Oh, he’ll be back soon. But I haven’t quite mastered the art of reminding our son that you’re gone again, so I’d rather save my tears for that rather than letting them fall when I see you leave.

It’s not long before I hear you set the alarm for your exit, the back door is successfully closed and the rev of your awaiting car starts. All of those sounds – sounds that are normal to any other household, I suppose – are engraved in my heart as painful sounds. Those sounds signify that we’re alone, once again.

For the next couple of weeks, it’s just me and the boys, and the only time we’ll find excitement is when the phone rings and there’s the slightest possibility that you’re on the other end. I wish we could block everyone else from calling when you’re gone, because the majority of the time, it’s not even you. And when it is, I just want to cry because it’s another reminder that I wish you didn’t have to call. That I wish you were here.

How does it feel to leave us? Do you cry on your way to the airport, wishing that there wasn’t another month between us? Does it make you sad that you missed Christian learning to tie his shoes or watching Tyler pick up his head for the first time? Do you regret not finding out that we were having a baby until I was three months along because I refused to tell you over the phone? I just wonder, do you feel the same pain that I do when you realize that you forgot my birthday? Tell me that it hurts you, too, and just maybe I’ll feel a little bit better.

I love you, Justin. I don’t think that can ever change. You could be gone for a year, call once a month and say nothing but I miss you, and I’d still love you when you finally returned. But I cannot take this. I just can’t. When we first met, and you were on the run all the time, I told you that I was bad at goodbyes. I told you that this was bound to be a disaster, and what did you say? You told me we’d work it out.

Well we’re not working it out. I’m working it out and I’m completely miserable in the process. You’ve turned me into a part-time single mother and full-time desperate housewife and I’m not happy. I feel abandoned and I feel unappreciated. So, I’m done. No more goodbyes, man. No more Just a little while longers or I’m not gonna make it home this weekends. I don’t have the strength to let you do this to me anymore, and especially not my children. How would that feel? How would you like to wonder when we’re coming home?

It’s then that the phone rings, and both me and Tyler are shaken from our sadness to wonder who it is. You just left, so it’s probably not you, but that’s just how much faith we put into the ringing of a phone. Sad, isn’t it?

Together, we retrieve the cordless from my bedroom – the one you use when you’re here – and see that it is you, miraculously. Ty must have an innate sense about these things, because he’s grabbing at the phone as I say, "Hello?" I know it’s you, but that’s just how disconnected from you I feel.

"I forgot to say something," you tell me. You sniffle and I think that just maybe you do cry when you walk out the door. Maybe.

"What’s that?" I ask softly.

"I love you."

Damn you. Just when I’ve resolved that I can pick up and walk out on you, you call and say those three words. It happens every time, whether you’ve been gone an hour, a week or a month, it all seems like a lifetime until you say those three words. And every time you say it, my face floods with tears, my heart remembers why I love you back, and therefore why I can’t leave you. All I’m left with is, "I love you, too."