By then, everyone had learned to offer soft words that struck like stones.
You’re still young.
These things happen.
Try again when you’re ready.
No one understood that readiness was not the issue.
The issue was that something inside our home had gone silent, and neither of us knew how to make the sound return.
Emily pulled away first.
I told myself she needed room.
Then I pulled away too.
I called it work.
That was easier.
I stayed late at the office even when nothing urgent required me.
I answered emails at 9 p.m.
I took on extra projects because spreadsheets did not stare at me with tired eyes from across the kitchen table.
Grief does not always burst through the front door screaming.
Sometimes it sits beside you at dinner and moves the salt shaker two inches to the left because it cannot say what it truly wants.
By April, Emily and I were not really fighting anymore so much as slowly wearing each other down.
Tiny things became arguments.
Laundry.
Money.
Whose turn it was to call the insurance company.
Why I came home late.
Why she stayed silent when I asked what was wrong.
On Tuesday, April 9, at 10:42 p.m., we stood in our kitchen beneath the weak yellow light over the stove.
The sink was full of dishes.
A pot on the burner had gone cold.
Emily had one hand on the counter, and I remember noticing how thin her wrist seemed.
I said, “Emily… maybe we should get divorced.”
The sentence did not sound dramatic as it left my mouth.
It sounded exhausted.
That made it worse.
She looked at me for a long time.
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