Frankie had always been a great husband and father. He worked hard to provide, to sustain his family. His two princesses were his world; he'd do anything for his three favorite people. He knew his absence was sometimes too much, too long.

He walked into the kitchen after a long, hot shower. He’d been moving all day, mostly avoiding this room, avoiding you. He had to. Not after what his youngest daughter had whispered to him that morning.

"Mommy has a new friend" she’d said, looking up with wide, innocent eyes. "He makes her laugh a lot."

The knowledge that you were seeing someone else was a cold, deep ache. It stung to think you were looking for that ease, that joy, in someone else’s company. But he couldn't blame you. He’d played his part in this too. The long hours, the days, sometimes weeks away, he’d known it would eventually wear you down.

He wanted to help with dinner while the girls watched TV. You handed him a bowl of potatoes, and he started peeling them as you stirred a pot on the stove. He’d noticed the changes, he just hadn’t wanted to admit them.

He'd seen how, all of a sudden, you started doing your makeup almost every day. How you began wearing dresses when you used to say they weren't convenient for your busy life. And now, your nails were done. Short, simple, perfectly polished. You’d always told him you didn't like them done like that. The sting sharpened: all this effort, and it wasn't for him.

And yet, he wouldn't confront you. He wouldn't start an argument, because honestly, he couldn't bear to ask if you still cared about him. If you still loved him. But deep down, he hoped you did. He hoped you loved him as much as he loved you.

"New dress?" Frankie asked, the word cutting through the heavy silence as you took the chopped potatoes and added them to the pot.