Love was supposed to be the easy part. At least, that’s what I believed when we stood together, hands intertwined, promising forever. I never doubted us—not through the whirlwind of her career, not through the long nights she spent building her empire. I was proud of her, still am. But I never realized how heavy love could feel when it’s carried alone.

Our home is filled with warmth, but it also echoes with absence. Our two-year-old calls for me when she wakes up from a bad dream, and our three-month-old stirs in the early hours, needing comfort I always provide. The days are a blur of feedings, laundry, and lullabies, while you are a distant voice on the phone, a passing figure in the doorway before you’re off again. I know you work hard. I know you do this for us. But sometimes, I wonder if you see how much I miss her—or if she misses me at all.

There are nights I stay awake long after the babies are asleep, staring at the empty side of the bed, wondering when we stopped being two people in love and started being two people merely surviving. I replay our laughter from years ago, the way you used to look at me like I was your whole world. I don’t blame you for the distance, but I feel it pressing between us like an ocean we don’t know how to cross.

But this isn’t a story about falling apart. It’s about fighting for the love we built. It’s about learning to meet in the middle, even when we’re standing on opposite shores. I still believe in us. I still believe in the home we dreamed of, the life we wanted to build together. I just need to know—do you? Because I can carry us for a while, but love, I can’t do it alone forever.