Page 2 of October
And I didn't like what I saw.
Chapter One: The Envelope
I didn't sleep much last night. The house was too quiet without the usual hum of him coming home, dropping his briefcase, asking about the kids. But that didn't happen. He came home late, kissed me briefly, and mentioned finding the cat with Laura.Laura.Of course. I tried not to let it show, but the word stuck in my throat.
"Sorry I missed your birthday, babe," he said, almost casually. "I will make it up to you, I promise," I nodded, tried to smile. I didn't confront him last night. I couldn't. He was too tired, too distracted, and I was too scared. There was so much I wanted tosay. So many things I should have said years ago. But every time I opened my mouth, I hesitated. Every time, I couldn't.
The morning unraveled in its usual whirlwind—noisy, messy, relentless. Jimmy, my brooding fourteen-year-old, sulked over his cereal like it had wronged him personally, grunting responses to every prompt like conversation was some kind of punishment. Alice, my sweet, dreamy four-year-old, insisted on wearing the blue dress with the sparkles, then took an eternity brushing her doll's hair before I could convince her to brush her own. She hummed to herself, blissfully unaware that we were, once again, racing the clock. Meanwhile, the toddler clung to my leg, sticky fingers and all, demanding juice and attention in alternating bursts of babble and wails. I tried to pack lunches one-handed, referee a mild shouting match over socks, and keep an eye on the clock that seemed to mock me with every tick.
Thomas moved through it all like a ghost—quiet, efficient, unreachable. We passed each other in the kitchen, a quick exchange of glances and maybe a muttered "Did you get Jimmy's backpack?" before the front door was swinging open. Then he was gone, the kids trailing behind him like ducklings, the house suddenly still.
We didn't talk. There wasn't time. There never seemed to be time anymore.
The baby was finally asleep in my arms. I didn't move—barely even breathed—as I rocked gently in the chair by the window. That's when it started. The spiral. The string of realizations that, once pulled, unraveled the entire story. I thought about the missed date nights. The silent dinners. The stiff smiles and colder sheets. And suddenly, it wasn'tjustthat he forgot mybirthday. It was that I couldn't remember the last time he'd looked at me like she was someone he wanted or loved.
A Sunday morning.
I made pancakes, even used cookie cutters to shape them like pumpkins. The kids squealed with delight.
He sipped his coffee and scrolled through his phone.
"Here's your favorite," I said, sliding a plate in front of him.
"Thanks," he muttered, not even glancing up.
I kissed his cheek anyway. He didn't respond.
A hotel room, our anniversary weekend.
I'd bought new lingerie. I lit candles, tried to make it special.
He told me I looked beautiful—polite, distant, like he was reading from a script.
"We could've stayed home for this. Didn't need to go all the way here," he muttered.
Afterward, he rolled over and fell asleep.
I cried in the bathroom with the water running so he wouldn't hear me.
A family barbecue. His family was there.
I tried to make him laugh, teased him about his grilling.
He smiled, but it didn't touch his eyes.
His sister leaned over and asked, "Are you two okay?"
I smiled too wide. "He's just tired."
The birth of our third child.
I reached for his hand.
He held it—loosely, politely.
Later, he told me I was brave. But his eyes were already drifting to the clock, to his phone, to the rest of the world.
Back in the present, I pressed my lips to the baby's hair and focused on breathing.
