We met at a wedding, danced through three slow songs, and exchanged numbers like shy teenagers. Two years later, we were married under a canopy of string lights and easy laughter, our vows inked with love and optimism.
Our life wasn’t perfect, but it was ours, and we tried hard to make it as happy as we could. We had Mia, our sunbeam of a daughter, and things felt real — anchored in a way that we could easily build a future on.
It wasn’t his fault — it was just another round of cuts at work, and this time, he couldn’t escape it.
The loss hit him hard. David stopped shaving for a while. He said he was fine, but there were mornings he didn’t get out of bed until noon.
I told my husband not to worry about a thing, that I would pick up the slack and that nothing would change in our home.
I took on more hours at the firm. He stayed home with Mia, he tried to keep the house together, and spent afternoons applying to jobs.
We didn’t talk about it much. I thought we were managing just fine for the moment.
But you know that feeling when something small doesn’t sit right — when you brush it off, but it stays with you anyway?
That’s what it was like with David.
A missed call he couldn’t explain.
They were little things, all of them. And I chalked it up to me being exhausted and oversensitive.
Until one morning, our four-year-old daughter said something that made my blood run cold.
David had an interview scheduled across town, so I decided to take the day off for a girls’ day with Mia. It had been too long since we’d spent a morning like that — just the two of us, no rushed drop-offs, and no emails lighting up my phone.
I wanted to give my daughter my full attention for once.
Pancakes were the obvious choice, of course. Within minutes, the kitchen was dusted in flour and sticky with syrup.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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