For 12 years, my husband Michael went on the same vacation at the same time every year.
One full week away. Same month. Same season. Same vague explanation. “The islands.”
And for twelve years, I stayed home.
It always began the same way. Sometime in late spring, Michael would bring it up casually, almost absentmindedly, as if he were mentioning an oil change or a routine work meeting. He would check flight prices on his phone, pull the small duffel bag from the back of the closet, and remind me, gently but firmly, that he would be gone for a week in July.
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