For eight years, I believed my husband and I had the kind of marriage people quietly envy.
Not flashy. Not dramatic. Just steady.
We were the couple who knew exactly how the other took their coffee. The couple who argued over paint colors and forgot to water the herb garden but still laughed about it together. We had two cats who only acknowledged us when they were hungry, a cozy two-bedroom house, and the sort of weekend routine that looked boring to outsiders but felt like home to us—pancakes, half-finished DIY projects, and Netflix shows we barely paid attention to.
We had also survived things that should have broken us.
Health scares. Job losses. Two miscarriages. Infertility.
And through all of it, I thought we had stayed close.
That was why, when Ethan told me one night that he wanted to start sleeping in the guest room, I didn’t panic.
He stood beside the bed holding his pillow with a sheepish smile and said, “Sweetheart, I love you, but lately you’ve been snoring like a chainsaw in a wind tunnel. I haven’t had one full night of sleep in weeks.”
