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.
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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.
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“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.
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Owen was quieter about it. He cornered me in the garage on day five, his hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets.
“Dad. Did I do something?”
“What? No, Buddy, no.”
“Why is Mommy sad?”
“Then why won’t Mom look at anybody?”
I pulled our son into a hug, and I remember thinking this was what my dad must’ve felt like the year before he and my mom split. That same fog in the house. Doors closing softly. A woman who used to sing along to the radio went quiet at the kitchen sink.
I was 10 when they told us. I promised myself when I got married that I’d never let a house get like that again. And now here I was, standing in one.
I pulled our son into a hug.
Claire’s phone was the other thing. She kept it face down on the counter, and if I walked into the room, she slid it into her back pocket. Once, I heard the little chime of an email at 2 a.m. through the guest room door.
“Is it your sister’s?” I asked her on day six, trying to sound casual. “Did you have a fight with Megan or Rachel?”
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“Nothing happened.”
“Claire, come on.”
“I said nothing happened. I’m just tired from work stress. I’m handling it. Please stop.”
Claire’s phone was the other thing.
Then my wife went upstairs and shut the guest room door in that soft, careful way that hurts more than a slam.
***
On day seven, I invited her for a walk, just around the block. She said she was going to lie down.
My wife looked sad all the time and constantly pulled away from me.
***
By day eight, I couldn’t take it anymore.
Claire had come home from school pickup, kissed Penny on the head like a stranger going through the motions, and disappeared upstairs.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
The guest room door clicked shut behind her. Again.
I stood in the hallway holding a plate of pasta she wouldn’t eat.
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“Dad?”
Owen was on the stairs, still in his soccer socks, his hair sticking up.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Is something wrong with Mom?”
I stood in the hallway holding a plate of pasta she wouldn’t eat.
I set the plate down on the console table. “Why would you think that?”
“She didn’t read to Penny last night. Or the night before.” He picked at the banister.
I looked down, not sure what to say.
“What’s going on?”
I didn’t have an answer. For a solid week, I hadn’t had a single answer, and my 15-year-old was standing on the stairs asking me to be the dad who knew things.