He was also Sylvia’s only son.

And that fact existed inside our  marriage like a small crack behind a wall.

Most days you couldn’t see it.

Sometimes you could forget it was there.

But the structure had always been affected.

Sylvia was sixty-two.

She had been married to Ethan’s father, Gerald, for thirty-five years.

Gerald was kind, mild, and extremely skilled at remaining present without interfering with whatever Sylvia had decided should happen.

Sylvia had strong opinions about nearly everything.

But her strongest opinions concerned Ethan.

He was her only child.

He had been the center of her emotional world from the moment he was born.

She loved him deeply.

I never questioned that.

The problem was that her love had protected him from discomfort so consistently that neither of them seemed to understand how much it had shaped him.

I noticed it early.

When I miscarried our first pregnancy, Sylvia called Ethan every day for a week.

She never called me.

I could hear her talking to him from the other room.

“This must be so difficult for you.”

“You’re being incredibly strong.”

“Tell me what I can do.”

I was the one who had been pregnant.

I was the one whose body had lost the pregnancy.

But Sylvia’s concern centered entirely on Ethan.

I said nothing.

At the time, I told myself I was protecting my marriage.

I understood grief professionally.

I understood that people responded imperfectly.