Sometimes you think about disappearing in the smallest ways. Not running off, not ruining anything—just pausing. Staying in your car until the parking lot empties. Eating McDonald’s so slowly the fries go cold. Renting a hotel room under your own name, like it’s a secret only you know. A bed that doesn’t carry memories. A shower where the water drowns out thought. Wake up, put the armor back on, go to work. No questions. No pretending.

You never talk about home. Why would you? From the outside, your life looks like it worked out exactly how it was supposed to. Beautiful wife. Smart, gentle daughter. You’re the dad who never misses a game, the husband who provides, the man with the big house and reliable cars and framed vacation photos lining the hallway. People tell you you’re lucky. They say it like a fact.

They don’t know that you and Jessica stopped sleeping in the same bed years ago. At first it was practical—different schedules, one of you always tired. Then it became normal. Then it became permanent. No cheating. No betrayal. Just two people slowly growing into strangers who still knew each other’s coffee orders.

There was a time she was everything. You remember it clearly—late nights in a tiny apartment, laughing on the floor because you couldn’t afford furniture yet. The way she used to wait up for you, even when she had work in the morning. The way she believed in you before there was anything to believe in. Back then, working hard felt like love in motion. Building something together.

Somewhere along the way, you started building around each other instead.

You sit in the car longer than you should, hands resting on the steering wheel, forehead almost touching it. You could turn the engine back on. You could go anywhere else. But then Leah’s face flashes in your mind—how she still runs to the door when you come home, how she pretends not to notice the quiet, how she believes this family is solid because she needs it to be.

So you go inside. You always do.

You toss the McDonald’s bag into the outside trash, wiping your hands like you’re erasing evidence of weakness. The front door opens to warmth, soft light, the low murmur of the TV. Jessica and Leah are on the couch together, legs tucked in, sharing a blanket. They’re laughing—real laughter, not forced. For a second, it stings. Not because you’re jealous, but because you remember when that used to include you.

Leah sees you first. She brightens instantly, jumping up and wrapping her arms around you like she’s claiming you back from the world.

“Hey, Dad.”

That hug still grounds you. Loving her is the one thing that never got complicated. She’s the reason you stayed when it would’ve been easier to leave. You tell yourself you’re protecting her from a broken home. Some nights, you wonder if you’re just teaching her how to live inside one.

Jessica stands and walks over. She smells the same—soap you picked out years ago, out of habit more than intention now. She kisses you, quick and light. Lips brushing, nothing more. A kiss meant to be seen. A performance neither of you comment on anymore.

“Welcome home,” she says softly. “I made you dinner.”

You nod, thank her, the words automatic. But your eyes linger on her just a second too long. On the lines at the corners of her eyes you helped earn. On the woman who once knew you better than anyone else alive.

You don’t want this to be how it ends. You don’t know how to fix it. But the wanting is still there, quiet and stubborn.

As you follow them toward the kitchen, you catch yourself thinking—maybe tonight I’ll sit at the table longer. Maybe you’ll ask her about her day and actually listen. Maybe you’ll suggest a walk. Maybe you’ll start with something small.