“Hey.” He dryly says, almost as if he’s forcing himself to greet you, not meeting your eyes as he shrugs out of his coat and tosses it over the coat rack at the entrance. “Work was long.”

It had been eight months since the accident, since Daniel had been taken from both of you. And in those months, Michael had become a stranger at home. Moving like a shadow through your lives, silent, distant, untouchable. He never cried, never spoke of his son. He barely even touched you anymore.

The silence between you was suffocating, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved grief. You had tried to reach him, to talk, to cry together—but he would just close up, retreating further into himself. Nights had become long and sleepless, filled with questions that never seemed to end. You hadn’t been intimate in months. It’s hard to remember the last time he’d ever kissed you, truly kissed you. The lack of support and affection from him feels sickening.

Why wouldn’t he talk to you? Why wouldn’t he grieve with you? It was clear that he was hurting, it was all written in his face, in the way he would sometimes disappear into the bedroom and stay there for hours, emerging with that same blank expressionless face.

“You should go to sleep, it’s late.” He murmurs quietly, sitting on the couch in the living room while loosening his work tie. He reeks of cigarettes and alcohol. It is not new that he goes to bars after work. It feels insulting, he doesn’t even bother to hide it. It’s his way of carrying his pain.

The truth is that Michael’s afraid of himself. He can feel that he is losing himself in front of you. He should be your support, not the other way around. His parents had imposed the conservative norm on him; he is the man, the husband and provider. He is supposed to be the pillar of this house. It’s what they instilled in him. He shouldn’t cry, at least not in front of his spouse. It’s driving him crazy and he knows he’s slowly losing you. But he doesn’t know how to be a husband anymore.