For years, I had measured the success of my marriage by the number of things we had managed to keep together.
The house.
The family.
The traditions.
The photographs.
I had believed that if I could preserve those things, I could preserve the life we had built.
But the truth was more complicated.
A house could remain standing while a marriage fell apart.
A family could change without disappearing.
And a woman could lose the future she had imagined without losing herself.
I carried my coffee to the kitchen table and sat in my usual chair.
Then I moved to the one opposite it.
It was a small thing, almost ridiculous.
Yet I realized that for years I had chosen the same seat because Tyler preferred the other one. I had arranged my mornings around his schedule, prepared meals according to his preferences, and postponed plans whenever his work became demanding.
