After two decades of marriage, I could feel him drifting—like steam rising and vanishing from my morning tea. But it wasn’t until I found a delicate gold bracelet—too dainty, too youthful—curled in the backseat of his truck that I began to see the truth hiding in plain sight.
I stood in the kitchen, cradling my mug, the steam rising into the soft morning hush. Outside, the world hadn’t stirred yet.
No birds, no engines. Just the stillness before the day takes off.
The blinds cut the light into gentle stripes across the counter, landing squarely on our wedding photo—me in my vintage lace dress, Lance in a suit that never quite fit his shoulders.
We looked so young. So certain. His hand resting on my waist like he’d never let go.
Twenty years. I stirred my tea slowly, letting the spoon tap the sides like a distant bell.
Saying it aloud felt strange, like holding a conch shell to my ear and hearing every moment echo back.
The laughter under the covers. The slammed doors. The newborn cries. The burnt dinners. The surprise dates. The quiet nights spent side by side, breathing in sync, saying nothing but everything.
“Twenty years,” I whispered, brushing the dust from the photo frame. “And now it feels like you’re a ghost in your own home.”
No answer, of course. The house had grown silent.
These days, Lance barely felt present.
Even when he was here, he wasn’t here. Eyes on his phone, gaze far away.
He kept saying work was piling up. That he needed space, weekends with the guys.
First it was fishing in Wisconsin. Then golf with old friends in Arizona.
This time? Vegas.
He used to send silly postcards with hearts. Lately, it was just a thumbs-up emoji or “can’t talk rn.”
Last Thursday, while rushing to zip his bag, he muttered, “We’ll talk after. I just need a little break, babe.”
A break from what, exactly? Me? Us? The life we built?
But I didn’t ask. I just smiled. That’s what I’d been taught to do.
Be patient. Be good. Especially when you’re still holding out hope—to maybe, someday, finally become a mother.
Three days passed. Then I saw his truck creep back into the driveway, just as the sky turned soft pink.
He stumbled out—wrinkled shirt, tangled hair, eyes bloodshot.
His breath carried the trace of perfume… and something heavier.
He didn’t look up at the window.
Didn’t know I was watching.
Didn’t care, maybe.
Inside, the eggs sizzled on the pan. The sound snapped in the silence like tiny alarms.
I flipped them, the yolks trembling—just like my hands.