My husband and I had one of those steady, comfortable marriages people quietly admire. We were the couple who knew exactly how the other took their coffee.
The kind who could sit in silence and feel completely content. We lived in a cozy two-bedroom house with an herb garden I always forgot to water.
Our weekends were filled with pancakes, half-finished DIY projects, and Netflix shows we barely remembered watching.
The Marriage I Thought We Had
I’m 37 years old. We’ve been married for eight years. Until recently, I truly believed Ethan and I were that couple, the stable, dependable kind.
Not flashy or dramatic. Just solid.
We’d survived hard things together. Health scares, two heartbreaking miscarriages, the pain of infertility, and job layoffs that tested our finances.
The kind of storms that either break you completely or bind you tighter. I genuinely thought we’d come out stronger.
We always slept in the same bed. So when Ethan casually announced one night that he needed to move into the guest room, I was surprised.
“Your snoring sounds like a leaf blower,” he said with an apologetic smile.
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