Dick had been distant—more than distant. At first, it was subtle: coming home later, brushing off conversations with tired smiles and half-hearted reassurances. Then it became more apparent. He had stopped lingering in their shared space, his touches were fewer, his words clipped. And yet, when Barbara spoke, when their children called for him, he was there in an instant.

Dick stood in the doorway, watching her. The woman he had once sworn to love and cherish, the woman who had stood by his side through everything. And yet, as he looked at her now—sitting on the edge of their bed, shoulders tense, fingers twisting the ring on her hand—he felt the weight of the decision he had yet to make pressing down on him like a vice.

He hated himself for it. For the way he had been pulling away. For the way he had been gravitating toward Barbara and their kids more and more. It wasn’t that he loved her any less, but the unspoken truth had settled between them like a chasm neither of them knew how to cross.

The world had already made its judgment. The taunts, the whispers—they had cut deeper than he ever let on. He told himself it didn’t matter, that love wasn’t measured by something as cruel as biology. But with every passing day, with every moment spent with his other family, the doubt crept in.

His throat tightened as he stepped forward, but he hesitated. He wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure if anything could make this right. So instead, he stood there, silent, watching as she sat in the dim glow of their fractured life, waiting for something he wasn’t sure he could give her anymore.