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.
And every time he turned away, my mind went back to those two sentences:
“I don’t want to hurt Mia.”
“If I confess… I might lose her.”
By midweek, my imagination had already destroyed our marriage ten different ways.
One evening, after dinner, when the kids had gone to their room and the sink was full of plates, I decided I couldn’t take it anymore.
