One month.
Thirty-one days.
I knew the exact number because I had counted every single one.
Thirty-one days since Jude had asked for space.
Thirty-one days since I’d moved into the guest room.
Thirty-one days since I’d kissed him without wondering if it would overwhelm him.
The doctor had explained it.
Hormones.
Pregnancy.
Temporary changes.
I understood the explanation.
That didn’t mean my heart understood it.
Every morning I still found myself reaching for him out of habit.
Every morning my hand met an empty mattress.
Every morning I remembered.
He needed space.
Not because he didn’t love me.
Because his body was asking for something neither of us could control.
I reminded myself of that every day.
Some days it helped.
Some days…
It didn’t.
⸻
I missed my husband.
