Then one morning, while I was getting dressed, he looked at me and asked:
“Are those still maternity jeans?”
I stared at him through the mirror.
I didn’t answer.
He smiled.
“You used to care.”
Other times, he would say, “Remember when people called me lucky?”
I knew exactly what he meant.
If I objected, he acted wounded.
“I can’t be honest with my wife now?”
Then he would kiss the children goodnight and put on the face of a kind, loving man.
For more than a decade, Greg turned every meal into an inspection.
At restaurants, he suggested salads before I had even opened the menu.
At home, he counted my potatoes with his eyes.
When I reached for seconds, he would tap his stomach.
“Careful,” he whispered.
The children heard him.
Eventually, none of us responded.
Silence became our household language.
Conversations stopped when Greg entered a room.
The children exchanged glances I couldn’t interpret.
Doors closed more often than they opened.
I noticed the distance growing between us, but I told myself it was adolescence.
I wanted to believe that.
It was easier than admitting what was happening inside our home.
I stopped wearing bright colors.
I stopped swimming with the kids because Greg made jokes about tidal warnings.
I changed in the bathroom.
I deleted old photographs from my phone.
Still, I stayed.
Leaving meant explaining everything.
It meant dividing holidays, changing schools and frightening three children who already sensed that something was wrong.
So I stayed.
By our twentieth anniversary, Greg wanted a party large enough to impress people he barely liked.
He rented a ballroom, hired a band and ordered gold invitations.
“Twenty years deserve a spectacle,” he said.
Sophie, then seventeen, helped me choose a navy dress.
She stood behind me in front of the mirror and adjusted the collar.
“You look nice, Mom.”
Greg passed the doorway.
He glanced inside.
“Dark colors are forgiving.”
Sophie immediately looked down.
I pretended not to notice.
That should have warned me.
Sophie had been quiet for months.
Our house felt tense, although Greg dismissed all of us as being dramatic.
Some evenings, the children disappeared upstairs before dinner was finished.
Sophie became protective of Lucy.
Daniel spent longer hours at practice.
I sensed that they were avoiding something, but whenever I asked, they told me they were tired, busy or fine.
Then came the anniversary party.
The ballroom glittered with candles and far too many flowers.
Greg’s friends gave speeches about loyalty and endurance.
Nobody in that room knew what endurance meant in our house.
Our children sat together near Claire, my oldest friend, who kept watching me with quiet concern.
After dinner, Greg took the microphone.
“Time for gifts,” he announced.
Two staff members carried out a heavy box wrapped in silver paper.
Guests lifted their phones.
Greg handed the box to me.
“Open it slowly,” he whispered.
“This will be memorable.”
His smile made my stomach tighten.
I removed the ribbon.
I folded back the paper.
Then I opened the lid.
Inside was a digital bathroom scale.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
