For twelve years, Michael vanished the same week every July. Like clockwork, he’d pack his bags and whisper about “the islands”—a family tradition that never included me or our kids. I stayed home, juggling meals, laundry, scraped knees, and the quiet ache of wondering what wasn’t being said.
At first, I told myself it was normal—just one of those compromises couples make to keep the peace. But year after year, the unanswered questions felt less like tradition and more like a door quietly closing in my face.
Each return brought no souvenirs, no photos, no stories—nothing that made me feel part of his world.
His mother, Helen, was polite but distant, never warm, never inclusive. I convinced myself it wasn’t personal, trusting Michael’s promises of stability while my instincts screamed otherwise. But the silence around those trips grew louder every summer.
This year, I decided enough was enough. A week before his usual departure, I called Helen. My voice steady, I asked why the family vacation never included us. There was a pause… and then a gentle truth. The trips hadn’t existed in over a decade. She assumed I already knew.
When Michael returned that evening, smiling like nothing had happened, I confronted him. The mask dropped instantly. The trips weren’t about family—they were his private escape. No secret life, no betrayal—just a lie easier to repeat than explain.
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