The Dream Beneath His Wings

Not quite gazing into my eyes, my husband declared, “You are the dream beneath my wings!” as he proffered me the expensive restaurant bill. With such loving words, I melted and paid the bill without question. I did not dwell on his lack of originality and near theft of words from Bette Midler’s “Wind Beneath My Wings.”

In the taxi, he distractedly held my hand while I studied his profile. Expensive suit, professionally manicured nails and designer haircut. What did I care if my clothing was rack-purchased, when I was “the dream beneath his wings?” I encouraged him to fly; I lifted him up.  I brought him joy. I was his support system. 

Gallantly, he held the taxi door asking, “Would you mind?” Naturally, I readily paid the taxi driver while my husband strolled nonchalantly into the luxuriant mansion. I locked up, because I was the support system.

My husband went to work late and returned home early. Then left without a word for a meeting at his exclusive club. He did not acknowledge me because he was so busy. Never mind. Up since dawn working on a pressing business deal, I laboured until the sun rose again.

Happily, I was the giver. So true, I was the “dream beneath his wings” and very content to be so. I paid his bills on time, picked up his dry cleaning, and made sure that all was in order so he could relax and not have a care. 

I was content. Then without a word, a stranger entered our home wanting to buy it. Without discussion, my husband had listed the house on the market. He wanted to make a down payment on an exclusive property in an exclusive neighbourhood. He held out his hand for my signed cheque. 

His wings deflated when I hesitated. In a suave as sateen voice and rich as jacquard manner, he growled, “Perhaps if you worked harder!”

I was the dream, and like the dream I left, banging the door.  His wings without me plummeted. It was time for dreams to become MY wings.