We had stupid arguments about laundry and thermostat settings.
We spent too much money ordering food on Fridays.
We planned vacations we couldn't afford.
We talked about buying a little house somewhere outside the city where we could have a backyard, a dog, and eventually children.
Especially children.
Sophie wanted them desperately.
So did I.
But wanting something doesn't guarantee life will give it to you.
Our first pregnancy ended after eleven weeks.
The second ended the following year.
That loss changed our home.
There was no dramatic explosion.
No single moment where everything fell apart.
It happened quietly.
Sophie stopped playing music while she cooked.
She stopped talking about nursery colors.
She packed the tiny pair of socks she'd bought during the second pregnancy into a cardboard box and pushed it to the back of our closet.
Sometimes I would wake at three in the morning and find her side of the bed empty.
When I asked where she'd been, she'd say she couldn't sleep.
I believed her.
What I didn't ask was why.
That was the beginning of everything I failed to understand.
Over time, Sophie became quieter.
I became impatient.
She canceled dinners with friends because she was “tired.”
She stopped wanting to attend office parties with me.
There were mornings when she barely touched breakfast.
Nights when she'd lie beside me completely still, staring at the ceiling.
I interpreted every change personally.
I thought she no longer enjoyed being around me.
I thought grief had taken the woman I married and left behind someone who tolerated my presence.
Instead of asking harder questions, I escaped.
