Ten years.
She was thinking about going.
—
I laughed.
Not loudly.
Not cruelly, at least not in my mind.
Just… casually.
Carelessly.
The kind of laugh that carries more meaning than you realize.
I asked her why.
What would she even say?
What would she have to share?
And then I said it.
The sentence that still echoes in my head.
I told her she was just a stay-at-home mom.
—
The room didn’t get louder.
It got quieter.
Not because the kids stopped.
But because something between us did.
Anna didn’t argue.
She didn’t raise her voice.
She just… paused.
For a second too long.
Then she nodded slightly, turned back to the sink, and kept going.
Like nothing had happened.
But everything had.
—
The Distance You Don’t Notice Right Away
She didn’t go to the reunion.
At first, I didn’t think much of it.
But something shifted.
Not all at once.
Quietly.
Subtly.
She still did everything she always did.
The house ran smoothly.
The kids were taken care of.
Meals were ready. Life continued.
But the warmth was gone.
The laughter we used to share disappeared.
The small touches—the quick smiles, the effortless conversations—faded into something distant.
At night, she turned away from me.
