I read the sentence that broke me.
“This is the night I was afraid your mom would stop loving herself enough to stay. This is also the night you smiled in your sleep, and I loved you so much it felt like being stabbed.”
Then I understood.
He was another drowning person floating only inches from me in the dark, and neither of us had known how to call for help.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
His head lifted sharply.
“For what?”
He stared at me for a long moment before answering with exhausted disbelief.
“Mara, I wasn’t exactly waving.”
I laughed through my tears.
Then he began crying too.
Noah was awake by then, watching us with curious eyes.
We talked until dinner.
For the first time, we said everything without trying to soften it.
We were finished protecting each other from the truth because that protection had also hidden reality from us.
I told Ethan about the static in my head. About afternoons when I stared at a wall and lost track of time. About the shame of loving Noah and still sometimes wanting to walk out the front door and never stop.
Ethan told me about the panic and catastrophic thoughts.
He described the secret fast-food stops after work because chewing gave his body something to do besides shake.
He told me he had bought the mini bottles because part of him believed that was what adults did when they were quietly failing.
“I need help,” I said eventually.
