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I passed the needle over the wool absentmindedly. With a pragmatic technique acquired only through practice, time, and a routine I followed every time I waited for my Hamilton to come home.
A string of steps I followed without even needing to pay attention, which I often used as a moment to let my mind wander.
All in the dimness of the room, eagerly waiting for my husband to cross the threshold.
Out of the corner of my eye, I took quick glances.
Still nothing.
I continued like that until, finally, I heard the abrupt sound of the hinges moving. I dropped the knitting and moved toward the door, excited to welcome him home.
The door swung open as quickly as it shut behind him, revealing an Alexander who seemed almost out of place. He looked at me for two seconds before his mind seemed to short-circuit, and he made a noticeable effort to compose himself.
It was as if he wasn’t prepared to see me, yet it happened so fast I barely had time to process it.
I saw his jaw tighten from the way his teeth were clenched together. His whole body was tense, and there was a strange glint in his eyes that I couldn’t understand.
“B-Betsy,” he muttered in a trembling voice I wasn’t used to hearing from him. The way he said it told me it was a failed attempt to mask his distress, trying to sound casual. He didn’t succeed, and that worried me.
A second later, I was almost on him, adrenaline bubbling through my veins, making me brace for the worst.
“Ham, are you okay? What’s wrong?” I asked as I began frantically examining him. I ran my hands over his clothes, searching for blood. Finding none, I tried to support him, but he quickly rejected it. He straightened up and attempted to reassure me with more composed movements.
“It’s fine, my Eliza. I’m fine. Just… I…” He made an attempt to step forward but failed to do so completely. He let out a sharp hiss and doubled over, hands on his knees, unable to move.
His reddish hair cascaded down, obscuring his face. I knelt down so our faces were level and gently brushed his hair aside.
The lilac of his eyes shimmered with moisture, and now, examining him up close, I noticed the damp lines on his skin, evidence that tears had been there moments before. I frowned, ignoring the icy fear creeping into my chest.
“Alexander, I want to help you. Please, tell me, what’s wrong? Are you in pain?” I asked, a hint of panic in my voice. He didn’t reply; instead, his expression darkened into something between anguish and determination. He ignored me, focused on reaching somewhere.
I followed him with little effort, as he could barely walk without stumbling or stopping.
Another desperate attempt to move—this time, he got farther. I knew he wouldn’t tell me, so I just watched, confused.
He let out a shaky gasp, and for a moment, I swore he was going to collapse. I grabbed his arm.
“Alex, for God’s sake.”
At my touch, I felt how feverishly hot he was. He was trembling.
Did he have a fever? I was about to try guiding him to bed so I could take care of him when he interrupted me with a sob. Another miserable whimper, and I watched as his face turned a deep crimson. His hand moved, and I followed it—only to see it stop below his abdomen, between his legs.
He shut his eyes tightly, and just behind his hand, I saw a darker stain bloom.
I had to clasp both hands over my mouth to suppress the instinctive “oh” that threatened to escape.
We both remained like that for what felt like an eternity, as Alexander was clearly unable to move, and I didn’t know what to do.
I knew my husband—I knew how stubborn and proud he could be. I also knew that trying to offer him any kind of support—words of encouragement or motivational phrases to push through—could be humiliating for him.
His sweat-dampened hair clung to his temples, and his knuckles were white from the effort. His free hand moved to his mouth—I assumed to stifle more sounds.
The noise wasn’t completely muffled, and I still heard him whimper.
“Come on, Hammie, don’t stop,” I pleaded almost automatically. I wouldn’t know what to do with an Alexander Hamilton whose pride had been shattered. I tried nudging him to our room where he could relieve himself, but it must have been too abrupt a movement for his poor, overstrained bladder.
The dark stain spread a little more, a few drops falling to the floor.
I wasn’t sure if Hamilton had noticed—perhaps not. He was too distraught for that, and I wouldn’t be the one to point it out. Instead, with more gentleness this time, I tried again to get him to move.
His pupils shrank, and he cursed—something quite uncharacteristic of a colonel.
“I can’t. Eliza, please. I can’t, I—”
He hunched over again, and the white linen quickly darkened with what I assumed was another leak.
I didn’t give up, but Alexander did.
This time, he made no sound. He closed his eyes, sighed, and let the tears in his eyes fall.
His body, already too exhausted, took over without his permission. Urine began soaking his clothes, marking dark lines down his legs and pooling at his feet.
“God…”
Even through the haze of shame, I knew he was feeling relief.
He hadn’t made it, but he was home, safe, with his wife—the one person he knew would take care of him and never belittle him, especially not for this.
I listened as his breathing slowed, now that it was over, and from his expression, I could tell he’d had a terribly miserable day.
I approached him with tenderness, placing my hands on his shoulders and kissing his forehead.
Hamilton still shivered from the relief.
“Do you feel better?”
He blushed again but nodded shyly, still avoiding my gaze.
“I’m so sorry, Betsy. You shouldn’t have to see this,” he tried to apologize, but I gently hushed him.
“It’s okay, Hammie. I’m just relieved you’re alright—that’s all that matters to me. Go change, and I’ll take care of this.”
He still looked troubled.
“No, no. I can do it. You don’t have to, Eliza.”
“Don’t worry, I want to. I want to help you.”
He looked at me, the vulnerability in his gaze still surprising me. He still seemed unsure.
“Thank you, my angel. I don’t deserve you.”
I smiled warmly.
“Just go, Alexander.”
This time, he listened, and I watched him disappear into our chambers.
I didn’t need to ask what had happened. I could imagine it, knowing Hamilton. Probably too busy, or something of the sort—it didn’t matter.
He didn’t owe me an explanation, and he didn’t need to give one. I understood.
This time, I would take care of him.