We were supposed to be celebrating their 40th anniversary. Matching red shirts, dinner in the oven, a cake from that overpriced bakery my mom always says is “too much but worth it.” I snapped this photo just before we sat down.
They looked happy enough, right?
But I noticed something no one else did. The way my mom’s fingers kept fidgeting with her necklace. The tightness in her smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. My dad was all jokes and stories, but she barely spoke during dinner.
Later that night, when I went to help her with the dishes, I asked if everything was okay.
She stared at the sink for a second, then said, “He’s a good man. Just… not the same man I married.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Then she added, “Sometimes people grow together. Sometimes they just grow. And you get so used to pretending everything’s fine, you forget what not-pretending even feels like.”
That hit hard. I thought about all the times she’d brushed off his comments, how often she’d cleaned up after his forgetfulness, how she always made excuses for him—“he’s tired,” “he didn’t mean it like that,” “he’s just set in his ways.”
I looked back at the photo I took earlier. My dad beaming. My mom holding his hand, looking like she was holding in something else entirely.
And then she said something I wasn’t ready for:
“Promise me, if it ever starts to feel like that… you won’t wait forty years to say something.”
I nodded, but before I could respond, we both heard the front door open.
Dad had gone out for “a quick walk”—but he came back holding something in his hand.
And that’s when everything changed.
