Serena was never demanding or loud. She didn’t need attention to feel valued. She carried a quiet steadiness that made everything around her feel calmer, and for a long time I believed that peace would last as long as we didn’t disturb it.
We used to talk about kids, about a house with a yard and a dog, about a future sketched in hopeful outlines. But life doesn’t always keep its promises. After two miscarriages in less than two years, something inside her began to slowly withdraw.
She didn’t break in obvious ways. She didn’t lash out or collapse. She simply became quieter. Her laughter faded. Her eyes drifted elsewhere. And instead of moving closer to her, I did the worst thing I could.
I pulled away.
I threw myself into work. I stayed late, hid behind deadlines, scrolled on my phone instead of asking how she was really doing. I told myself I was giving her space, when in reality I was running — from her pain, from my helplessness, from the terrifying truth that love doesn’t always fix what’s falling apart.
When we did argue, it wasn’t fiery. It was drained and weary — the kind of fighting that comes when both people are too tired to fight and too wounded to let go.