The night I almost told him to go, the house felt like it was collapsing in slow motion. Grief had hollowed every room, and the looming bills scraped at what was left. I mistook his quiet for indifference, his tired jokes for dismissal, and let resentment grow in the spaces where we never spoke the truth. I didn’t see how afraid he was of failing, only how alone I felt in the wreckage.
Then I found the duffel bag with my name on it, tucked behind winter coats: statements, savings, careful notes in his looping handwriting. Not an escape plan, but a rescue plan. While I’d been counting losses, he’d been counting every spare dollar. That discovery didn’t erase the hurt, but it changed its shape. We finally sat at the table, grief between us, and chose not to let it speak for us anymore.
