The shift was so subtle at first that I nearly missed it. A late meeting here. A missed dinner there. Marcus had always worked hard, but something was different. He stopped coming home on time. And when he did, he’d brush past me with a distracted kiss and say, “Meeting ran over,” or “New project launch. It’s chaos.”
I wanted to believe him. I truly did. But the details didn’t always add up.
He stopped participating in bedtime, something he used to cherish. I’d find him in his office with the door closed, typing or scrolling through his phone. If I asked what he was working on, he’d mutter, “Just catching up,” without looking up. Sometimes he’d step outside to take calls and come back flushed and tense.
At dinner, his silence grew heavier.
“Jacob scored two goals today,” I’d say, trying to spark interest.
“That’s nice,” Marcus would respond, eyes fixed on his phone.
Emma made attempts too.
“Dad, I’m thinking of trying out for the school paper.”
“That’s great,” he said, not lifting his gaze.
When I gently asked if something was wrong—if maybe we needed to talk—he dismissed it.
“You’re reading too much into things,” he told me once, sounding exhausted rather than cruel. “It’s just work.”