I nodded, as always. I had long since grown used to his “I’ll be late,” repeated over the years with the regularity of a church bell. At first, it bothered me. Then I learned not to ask. After that, I learned to defend him to the children. “Your father works hard for us.” “He’s exhausted.” “He has a lot on his shoulders.” A woman can hold up a lie for years if she wraps it in loyalty.
Later, while straightening the closet, I found a folded invitation tucked inside the jacket he had worn the day before. “40th anniversary of the company,” it read in gold letters. I smiled. Forty years. We would also celebrate forty years of marriage that winter. It felt like a lovely coincidence, almost a sign. Thomas had seemed distant for months—muted, as if he came home with his body but left his soul elsewhere. I told myself maybe we were not broken, only numb. Maybe all we needed was one gentle gesture to remember who we had once been.