For Thirteen Years, I Thought My Marriage Was Steady — Not Perfect, But Real. Marcus And I Built A Quiet Life With Two Children, Emma And Jacob, And A Rhythm That Felt Like Home. Until One Day, That Rhythm Fell Apart.
It Started Subtly — Late Nights, Vague Excuses, A Phone That Was Suddenly Always Face Down. He Withdrew From Our Routines, From Bedtime Stories And Sunday Breakfasts, Until Our Home Felt Like A House With One Too Many Ghosts
When He Suggested Hosting A Family Dinner, I Took It As A Sign Of Hope. “Let’s Have Everyone,” He Said. “My Parents, Your Mom, Even Iris.” For The First Time In Months, He Smiled. I Let Myself Believe Maybe We Were Finding Our Way Back.
I Spent The Day Cooking His Favorites, Setting The Table With Our Best Dishes, And Trying To Quiet The Ache In My Chest. The Evening Began Beautifully — Laughter, Good Food, Our Children Showing Off Magic Tricks For Their Grandparents. For A Moment, I Almost Forgot The Distance Between Us.
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