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I know a lot of young girls out there who dreams of marrying a popular band member of some punk or rock group. At some point in my life, I was one of those girls, too. I remember back in the day when I would save all my money to be able to purchase said band’s CDs, DVDs, posters and concert tickets if they were ever in town - which very often, they were not since no band ever dreams of being able to play in a small town of North Carolina. And my parents? They never entertained my whole addiction to these people who play music for a living. They thought I was being stupid, but nevertheless, I’d still pretend that I was married to one of them. Or was in the prospect of at least marrying.

Of course, reality check here, I never really married the people from the bands I’ve oggled on for years. It was impossible for me to even have had a chance to meet Pete Wentz or anyone from Fall Out Boy (or any band for that matter). Instead, I married my bestfriend, who was in a band.

When a popular rockstar or a band member gets married to some celebrity or some socialite, everybody knows and hears about it. Like Nicole Richie and Joel Madden. Pete Wentz and Ashlee Simpson (I know, they’re divorced now.). The media becomes slaves to their relationship, always documenting their single move and checking whether they’re on the verge of divorce. But when it’s a nobody, just some random girl from a small town, people never seem to mind nor ask about how she feels about him always being away for long tours on end.

Nobody ever cares about the unknown wife in this industry.

“Mommy?” I look back and see Damon in his Toy Story pajamas as he brushes his eyes with his arm, his blonde hair disheveled from possibly all the tossing and turning in his sleep. “Is Papa back home?” he pauses and walks towards me. “It’s already September 28.”

I drop all my painting utensils and give him the warmest hug a mother could give. It’s almost October. In a few days, it will already be his 4th birthday. Time passes by so fast, it only feels like yesterday when he left for tour. “No, sweetie.” I quietly reply back and hold his soft and plump cheek. “He isn’t.” I look on the huge view from our condominium. Lights everywhere even at this late. Maybe I’m not the only insomniac around. “Now go back to sleep.”

“But, Mama,” he quickly responds with a despondent face. Damon crosses his arms together and with his usual childish charm purses his lips like a hungry puppy. He gets that from his father. “Can’t I just stay up just for a bit?”

I feel a little hesitant to bring out a yes, but it is Saturday already. I’ve been a child myself and also found comfort in being with my mother (as well as the television) when things weren’t going exactly as I hoped them to be back then in school, relationships and drama. “Okay, Damon.” I press open the television and change the channel to Nickelodeon. “Just for a bit.”

Eventually as minutes coddled down to a peaceful silence after his sudden bursts of laughter every now and then from watching Spongebob, Damon fell asleep on the couch. From the neon lights beaming on his tiny porcelain face, I spot the similar features with his father. Their similar blonde hair, lips and wide set eyes that could easily make you fall in love with him are all in his.

I fix myself up 2 cups of coffee and bring a blanket to cover up my baby. Coffee reminds me of my husband. He always stayed up with me whenever I felt the need to finish my work. Somehow, he made me me feel as though I wasn’t bothering him, that he was also an insomniac as I am. But I knew that wasn’t the complete truth. I knew that he simply wanted to be there for me.

I sip and pick up my palette, mix the colors together. Each stroke feels a bit heavier than the previous so I decide to call him.

“Hey,”

“Darling.”

“Why are you sad?”

“I’m not.”

“Aww, Love.” “Don’t lie.”

“You’re not around.”

“I’ll always be around.”

The door opens.

“What a nice surprise to see you.” Tears flow from my eyes.

“You don’t know how happy I am to see you.”