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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