Ryan and I had three children: Lia, sixteen; Declan, thirteen; and Oliver, nine.
We weren’t a perfect couple. We argued about money, disagreed about parenting, and sometimes went to bed without resolving an argument.
But I trusted him.
That was the difference.
Ryan worked in sales and traveled around the country several times a month. His trips were usually short, and although I disliked spending nights alone with the children, I understood that his job helped pay our mortgage and keep our family comfortable.
At least, that was what I believed.
For years, I’d packed his shirts, reminded him to take his medication, and checked that he had his phone charger before leaving for the airport.
Our youngest son even kept a calendar on his bedroom wall, marking the days his father was expected to return.
“Dad comes home Thursday, right?” Oliver would ask.
“Thursday evening,” I’d tell him.
Then he’d count the days.
