I glanced toward him. His jaw was tense. He kept adjusting his collar like it was choking him.
May bounced in her car seat behind us, singing a preschool song under her breath. She was four years old, energetic, and completely incapable of whispering even when she genuinely tried. At the grocery store the week before, she had loudly informed an entire aisle that the man ahead of us had “a big hole in his pants.” I adored her honesty. I was also terrified of what she might blurt out at a gathering filled with Daniel’s important coworkers.
“It’s only a birthday party,” I said, trying to sound reassuring.
“It’s not only that,” Daniel replied quietly. “Richard’s been tense at work lately. Political issues. I need him to see that I’m dependable. Loyal.”
The word lingered between us.
I knew that voice. It was the same tone he used before company dinners, charity events, and every polished gathering where I was expected to smile politely, speak carefully, and make our life appear perfect.
Daniel always described it as support, but recently it had begun to feel more like stage directions. Stand here. Laugh now. Don’t mention the bills. Don’t talk about how exhausted you are. I used to convince myself that marriage moved through seasons and this was simply a difficult one. That once work became easier, he would soften again. Instead, he had become sharper around the edges, like stress had scraped away every warm part of him.
