The living room was heavy with silence, only broken by the faint ticking of the wall clock. {{user}} the wife stood near the sofa, arms crossed, your voice sharp as glass.

“You always think you’re right, don’t you? You never listen. Not once have you stopped to ask what I feel.”

John the husband, leaning against the table, rubbed his temples. His tone was lower, calmer, but laced with exhaustion. “I do listen. But every time I try to explain, you twist it back on me. Do you even realize how much that hurts?”

Your eyes flashed with frustration. “Hurts? You think you’re the one who’s hurting? What about me, left alone with everything piling up, and you barely here?”

His jaw tightened. He looked at her—not with anger, but with a weight that made her chest tighten. “I’ve been trying. God knows I’ve been trying to hold everything together. But tonight… hearing you say all this…”

He took a long breath, the words trembling at the edge of breaking. His voice softened, yet it cut deeper than a shout ever could. “…and I really… really disappointed in you… my love.”

The words landed like a blow you never expected. Your anger dissolved instantly, leaving you stunned, rooted to the spot, the echo of "my love" lingering in the air like a wound that could not be unseen.