The Chronicles of the Scaredy-Cat Husband

Home Alone.

When you imagine a grown man living alone for a month, you might picture someone relishing their newfound freedom: binge-watching TV shows, eating junk food and having a blast. But let me tell you, my reality is quite the opposite. My wife, Esra, has jetted off to Turkey for a month because her mother had a terrible accident. And here I am, a forthy-something man, feeling like a scaredy-cat trapped in our home. It all started the night Esra left. I waved her off with a brave smile, promising her I’d be fine. “Go take care of your mom,” I said. “I’ve got this,” I said — famous last words. When the door closed behind her, I heard every creak and groan in the house. Suddenly, our cozy home felt like the set of a horror movie, and I was the clueless protagonist.

You see, I have this not-so-secret fear of being alone at night. It’s not something I advertise, but here we are, spilling the beans. I thought I’d outgrown it, but not. The first night, I tried to tough it out. I turned off the lights, climbed into bed, and pretended everything was normal. Except it wasn’t. I heard every noise: the fridge humming, the floorboards creaking, the wind howling like a ghost with unfinished business. By the second night, I had a new strategy. I left the night light on. Yes, a night light. Laugh all you want, but it’s a little beacon of sanity in my otherwise fear-fueled nights. You know you’re in deep when a night light becomes your best friend. At first, it was embarrassing. I mean, who’s afraid of the dark at my age? But then, I figured, if it helps me sleep, who cares?

Of course, the night light isn’t a cure-all. My imagination is my worst enemy. Every shadow on the wall turns into a monster. I’ve contemplated setting traps like Kevin in Home Alone, but I figured the odds of me injuring myself were higher than catching any would-be intruder. Instead, I’ve taken to sleeping with a heavy flashlight by my bed. It’s my makeshift weapon against the imaginary ghouls.

During the day, things are fine. The sun is shining, the world is bustling, and I feel like a competent adult. But as the sun sets, my inner scaredy-cat awakens. I’ve started watching comedies before bed to keep my spirits up. Laughter is the best medicine, right? Wrong. I watched a horror movie spoof, thinking it would help — big mistake. Instead of defusing my fears, it amplified them. Now, not only am I scared of the dark, but I’m also scared of comedic ghosts.

You’d think with all this alone time, I’d be super productive. Maybe I’ll finally get around to those DIY projects Esra’s been nagging me about. Nope. My productivity has plummeted to zero. I spend my evenings triple-checking the locks and peering out the windows like a paranoid squirrel. The other day, I heard a noise outside and convinced myself it was an intruder. Turns out, it was just the neighbor’s cat. I felt a mix of relief and embarrassment, but mostly embarrassment.

Cooking for one is another adventure. I miss Esra’s cooking more than ever. My culinary skills are limited to boiling water and making toast. I tried following a recipe once, but halfway through, I got distracted by a noise (probably the wind) and burnt everything. Now, my diet consists of cereal, sandwiches, and takeout. I’m sure I’ve become the local pizza delivery guy’s best customer. We’re on a first-name basis now, which is both sad and comforting.

The funniest part of this ordeal is how I’ve started talking to myself. I mean, full-on conversations. It’s like I’ve split into two people: Rational Me and Scaredy-Cat Me. Rational Me tries to keep things together, while Scaredy-Cat Me jumps at every little sound. It’s a miracle I haven’t lost my mind entirely.

So, here I am, halfway through this solo stint, counting down the days until Esra returns. I’ve learned a lot about myself during this time. I’m mainly a big baby when left to my own devices. At least I can laugh at myself. And if there’s one thing this experience has taught me, it’s okay to be scared. We all have our quirks; mine involves a night light and flashlight. Esra will be back soon, and I can sigh in relief. Until then, I’ll keep the night light on and try to survive these last few weeks. Who knows, maybe I’ll even tackle one of those DIY projects. Or maybe I’ll order another pizza and watch some cartoons. Either way, I’m surviving, one night at a time.