But it wasn’t just work. It was everything. The irritation over how I folded towels. The annoyed sighs when I asked him to take out the trash. The way he gradually shifted away from me in bed each night until the space between us felt like a canyon.
I convinced myself it was temporary. Stress. Burnout. Maybe even a touch of depression. I read articles, tried to be patient, cooked his favorite meals. I even picked up his dry cleaning without being asked, hoping to ease his load.
Still, I felt invisible in my own house.
So when Marcus suggested hosting a family dinner—something we hadn’t done in years—I seized the opportunity.
“It’ll be good,” he said casually. “Let’s invite everyone—your mom, my parents, Iris.”
I stared at him. “You want to host a dinner?”
He nodded, already texting. “Yeah. Feels like it’s time.”
And suddenly, I felt hopeful.
Maybe this was his way of reaching back. Maybe he was trying. I poured myself into the preparations. I bought fresh flowers, ironed the tablecloth, and brought out the good china from the attic. Emma helped fold napkins into neat triangles while Jacob practiced card tricks in the living room, already planning to entertain Grandpa.