My wife had been talking about her high school reunion for weeks. She lit up when she mentioned it, eyes sparkling with a youthful excitement I hadn’t seen in years. But as the day drew near, my bitterness slipped out.
“You’ll embarrass yourself,” I said flatly. “You’re just a stay-at-home mom now.”
The words hung in the air. I saw her face fall, the light extinguished instantly. She didn’t argue, didn’t cry — she simply turned away. And when the reunion came, she stayed home. She didn’t speak to me for days. The silence was heavier than any fight we’d ever had.
Two weeks later, a package arrived. A heavy box, addressed to her. She wasn’t home, and against better judgment, I opened it.
Inside was a stack of books with glossy covers. At first, I thought they were yearbooks. But as I pulled one free, my breath caught.
It was a published novel. Her name — my wife’s name — was boldly printed across the cover.
