We told ourselves we were a team.
Eventually, routines returned. I went back to work. The kids went back to school. Life resumed its familiar pace, and for a while, it felt like we had survived something that would only make us stronger.
Daniel started spending more time on his phone. He came home later than usual and seemed distant even when he was physically present. He was short-tempered over small things, snapping in ways that felt unlike him.
When I asked if he was all right, he brushed me off with vague answers about being tired or overwhelmed.
I told myself to be patient. Going through a serious health scare can change a person. Facing your own fragility can shake your sense of self. I convinced myself that giving him space was part of being supportive.
So I stepped back.
And the distance between us grew.
One Friday, with the kids heading to my mother’s for the weekend, I decided to do something special. I wanted to remind him of us, of what we had been through together.
I cleaned the house, lit candles, and ordered his favorite dinner. It felt hopeful, almost like reclaiming something that had slipped away.
I realized at the last minute that I had forgotten dessert and ran out to the bakery, thinking I would be gone for only a short while.
I smiled, assuming he had come home early.
As I walked up to the door, I heard laughter inside. A man’s voice and a woman’s voice. The woman’s voice stopped me cold because it was painfully familiar.
My sister.
My mind scrambled to make sense of it. Maybe she had stopped by unexpectedly. Maybe I was overreacting. I opened the door slowly, my heart pounding.
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