"Was your meeting bad?"
"It was fine."
"Do you want me to make you lunch?"
"The cafeteria is fine, Maya."
So I stopped asking.
For three years of marriage, that was how it worked. He went downtown in pressed shirts and polished shoes. I stayed home, managed the house, and tried not to feel like my life had become a loop of dishes, laundry, and grocery lists.
I did not hate it.
Some days, I even loved the quiet rhythm of it. But other days, when Jeremy came home smelling like aftershave and city air, carrying stories about people and projects and deadlines, I felt like I was peeking at a life that had kept moving without me.
Then, a few months ago, "fine" changed.
He came home one evening, dropped his briefcase by the entryway, and stood in the kitchen with a face so grim I thought something terrible had happened.
