Alan
I stood in the living room, the suburban quiet pressing against me like a second skin.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily, a relentless reminder that time did not pause for hesitation, for fear or for guilt.
And yet, here I was, frozen in place, staring at the muted glow of the lamp, knowing that what I needed to do was one of the hardest things I’d ever faced.
Susan was in the kitchen, the soft clinking of a spoon against a cup announcing her presence before she even spoke.
I could hear her breathing, measured, but tinged with the tension I had put into this house, into her life, into our marriage.
She had every right to be angry. Every right to feel wronged. And tonight, I would finally say the words that might hurt her more than anything else.
I took a slow, deliberate
