At dinner, his silence became impossible to ignore.
“Jacob scored two goals today,” I’d say, hoping to spark something.
“That’s nice,” Marcus would mutter, eyes glued to his phone.
Emma tried too.
“Dad, I’m thinking of trying out for the school paper.”
“That’s great,” he said, not even looking up.
And when I asked him gently if something was wrong, if maybe we needed to talk, he would brush it off.
“You’re reading too much into things,” he said once, not unkindly, but tired. “It’s just work.”
But it wasn’t just work. It was everything. The way he snapped when I folded the towels differently. The sighs when I asked him to take the trash out. The quiet way he edged further away in bed each night, until the space between us felt like a canyon.
I told myself it was a phase. Men go through things. Stress. Burnout. Maybe even a little depression. I read articles, tried to be patient, and cooked his favorite meals. I even picked up some of his dry cleaning without being asked, just to make things easier.
But the truth was, I felt invisible in my own home.
So when Marcus suggested we host a family dinner, something we hadn’t done in years, I jumped at the idea.
“It’ll be good,” he said, almost casually. “We’ll have everyone over — your mom, my parents, Iris.”
I blinked. “You want to host a dinner?”
He nodded, already texting someone. “Yeah. Feels like it’s time.”
