Everyone always said I was too kind—kind to a fault. The type who would babysit her sister’s kids at a moment’s notice. The one who kept giving second chances, even after the apologies faded away. I believed that kindness would come back around. I believed that love could be held together with enough effort. I believed in Jack.
But love shouldn’t feel like silence. It shouldn’t feel like standing in front of someone who doesn’t even look up from his phone. Somewhere along the way, Jack changed. Our marriage had turned into a quiet, slow drift.
One evening, coat on, keys in hand, I lingered by the door. Hoping he’d ask where I was going.
He didn’t look up.
“We used to talk about weekend getaways,” I said.
He sighed. “Marie, don’t start. I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“We don’t even eat dinner together anymore.”
“We’re both here, aren’t we?” he mumbled. “What more do you want?”
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