Lose me?
For what?
What had he done?
He shifted on the bed, the mattress dipping, then a moment later I heard his footsteps leaving the room. The door opened softly, then clicked shut. A few seconds later, his voice floated down the hallway from the living room — cracked, defeated, talking to himself like a man cornered by his own conscience.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he whispered. “I should have said something right away… I should have told her…”
Told me what?
In ten years of marriage, I had never heard Adrian sound like that. Not when we were broke. Not when we lost a pregnancy. Not even when his mother was dying in the hospital.
But now, he sounded… broken.
A thousand ugly thoughts rushed through my head at once.
Does he have another woman?
Is he in trouble?
Did he lose all our savings?
Is he sick?
Is he leaving?
I lay there in the dark, clutching the sheet until my knuckles hurt, feeling like my whole life had been quietly tilting without me noticing — and tonight it had finally started to fall.
The next morning, I played dumb.
I got up, cooked breakfast, packed the kids’ lunches, poured his coffee. I made stupid little jokes, pretending everything was normal.
But he wasn’t normal.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. His hands trembled when he reached for his cup. He looked like a man who had swallowed glass and was trying to pretend it didn’t hurt.
All week, he was distant.
He’d come home, sit on the couch, stare at nothing. He’d respond when I talked to him, but his answers were short, distracted. He held his phone a little too close, his shoulders a little too tight.
