My wife mentioned the reunion casually, like she was testing the air.
“They’re doing a twenty-year one,” she said while folding laundry. “I thought maybe I’d go.”
I didn’t even look up from my phone. The words came out sharp and careless, like I was swatting a fly.
“Why?” I said. “So you can embarrass yourself? Everyone there is probably a lawyer or a CEO by now. You’re just a stay-at-home mom.”
The room went quiet.
I remember thinking she’d argue. She always did—softly, but persistently. Instead, she just nodded once. Not agreement. Acceptance. The kind that settles like dust.
“Oh,” she said. “Okay.”
She didn’t go.
And she didn’t speak to me for days.
Not the dramatic, slamming-doors kind of silence. Worse. Polite. Efficient. She answered questions about dinner and schedules, but nothing else. Her eyes slid past me as if I were furniture she’d already decided to replace.
I told myself she was being sensitive. That I was just being realistic. That reunions were shallow popularity contests anyway.
Two weeks later, a delivery truck stopped in front of our house.
The driver struggled up the walkway with a large, taped-up cardboard box. Heavy. Industrial-looking. My wife’s name was printed on the label in bold letters.
She wasn’t home.
I hesitated only a moment before cutting the tape. After all, we were married. No secrets, right?
I folded back the flaps.
And went numb.
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