Arthur and I had been married for nearly ten years. We met in a neighborhood book club, the kind where you talked more about life than literature. His intelligence drew me in; his calm, steady nature made me feel safe.
Our life together wasn’t glamorous, but it was comfortable. We had our traditions — pancakes every Sunday morning, evening walks when the weather was good, movie nights when it wasn’t. Arthur was dependable, funny in a quiet way, and loved by everyone who knew him.
When his father passed away, it broke something inside him. I assumed his distant behavior — the late nights, the phone turned face-down, the vague explanations — were part of grief. After all, he’d lost his father, his mentor, the man who had built the company Arthur now ran.
The last thing I expected was that our son’s innocent observation would plant the seed of doubt that shattered the illusion completely.
The Whisper That Wouldn’t Leave
That evening, after the funeral, I tried to brush it off. Children misinterpret things all the time. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe I was overthinking.
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