I laughed, not because it was funny, but because it felt unnecessary. “Why go?” I asked. “So you can tell everyone you stay home and wipe noses all day?”
Her shoulders tightened. “Oh,” she said quietly. She didn’t go to the reunion and barely spoke to me for days. Practical questions were answered, but the warmth—the laughter, the small touches—was gone. At night, she faced the other side of the bed, forming a quiet wall I couldn’t scale.
