We had built a life together.
At least, that was what I believed.
Our house had once been full of noise.
Our son, Ethan, used to race down the stairs with one shoe on, shouting that he was going to miss the school bus. Our daughter, Olivia, would spend twenty minutes deciding what to wear, then appear downstairs wearing the very outfit she had rejected first.
Tyler would sit at the kitchen table with his coffee, pretending to read the newspaper while secretly checking his work emails.
I would stand at the stove, reminding everyone that breakfast was not going to prepare itself.
Those mornings had been chaotic, ordinary, and beautiful.
Now the children were grown, and the house had become strangely quiet.
I had imagined that Tyler and I would enjoy this new chapter together. We would travel more, go out to dinner without worrying about school the next morning, and finally have time for the conversations we had postponed during the years when raising children consumed nearly every waking hour.
