And she hadn’t told me.
Why? Because she knew I wouldn’t believe in her. Because she knew I’d laugh, or worse, belittle her.
I stared at the books, numb. My wife wasn’t “just” anything. She was an author. A creator. A woman who carried our family while also carrying dreams I never asked about.
When she came home that evening, I was still at the table, books spread before me. She stopped in the doorway, eyes narrowing.
“You opened it,” she said quietly.
I swallowed hard. “I… I didn’t know.”
Her voice was steady, hands clenched. “Of course you didn’t. You never asked.”
The truth cut deeper than any insult. I had been blind, too wrapped in my narrow view of success to see hers.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I was wrong.”
She studied me silently, then walked past, gathered the books, and carried them upstairs.
That night, I lay awake, listening to her typing in the other room. The same sound I had ignored for years. Now it was deafening.
