That was the cruel irony. She had hidden her pain to protect the marriage, but hiding it had helped destroy the connection between us. I had lived with someone who was drowning, but she had learned to sink quietly enough that I never reached for her.
Sitting in that hospital room, guilt settled over me like weight. How had I missed the suffering of someone I once loved so deeply? How had I been so focused on my own frustration that I failed to see she was fighting a battle inside herself every day?
I thought about our fights during the last year of marriage. I had accused her of not caring, of giving up, of pulling away. She had become defensive and distant, and I had taken that as proof that she wanted out. Now I understood that her withdrawal had not meant she stopped loving me. It meant she was trying to survive while pretending everything was fine.
