My wife had gone away for a few days and came back feeling like someone I barely recognized. The more she pulled away from the kids and me, the more convinced I became that whatever had happened was bigger than she was willing to admit.
The guest room door had been closed for six nights in a row. I stood in the hallway at 11 p.m. with a mug of tea I’d made for her, listening to the sound of nothing on the other side.
Claire used to fall asleep with the TV on. Now she didn’t even breathe loudly enough for me to hear.
I set the mug down on the floor and walked back to our bedroom. Empty side of the bed. Cold sheet where her leg should’ve been.
The guest room door had been closed for six nights in a row.
***
Eight days earlier, my wife, Claire, had come home from the “girls’ weekend” at a spa with her sisters, and everything about her had changed.
For over 10 years, she, Megan, and Rachel had taken that trip every summer. Claire always came back smiling, sunburned, laughing, rested, her phone full of photos showing how much fun they’d had. She also had tons of funny stories about Megan snoring or Rachel losing at cards.
Everything about her had changed.
***
This year, my wife walked through the front door, and I knew before she set her bag down. She hugged me without pressing in and smiled with her mouth only.
“How was it?” I asked.
“It was fine.”
“Just fine?”
“I’m tired, Paul. Long drive.”
She hugged me without pressing in.
She didn’t eat that night. I made her a plate; she pushed the food around and then scraped it into the trash when she thought I wasn’t looking.
***
Claire was sleeping in the guest room the same night she returned. By day four, she’d stopped reading to Penny at bedtime. That one gutted me. She’d read to that kid every single night for seven years.
“Mom, are you sick?” our daughter asked her once in the kitchen.
She didn’t eat that night.
“No, sweetheart. Just work stuff.”
***
“Why is Mommy sad?” Penny asked me later while I loaded the dishwasher.
I didn’t have an answer for a seven-year-old. I barely had one for myself.
Owen was quieter about it. He cornered me in the garage on day five, his hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets.
