She saw his face and something began to hurt inside her. She wanted to know what could be bad enough to make him look that way. She wanted it to be something small. Small and fixable.

Are you sick?

Did you dent the car?

Did you lose your job?

We'll be okay, honey, I love you.

But as he reached out for her hands, both of them, not just one, she started praying that it wouldn't be any of the crazy thoughts that were suddenly screaming through her head.

Did someone die?

Are you dying?

Do you not love me any more?

Is there someone else?

Are you leaving me?

I'm afraid!

Her ears heard what he told her, her eyes saw his pain, and her heart dropped to her toes as she jerked her hands away. It wasn't true. Her brain wouldn't accept it. Not this.


A baby.

It's mine.

I'm so sorry.

Don't touch me.

He was crying. Why was he crying when her eyes were dry? Her heart was too broken to cry. Things like this happened to other people. People with troubled marriages. Not to them, never to them.

It was a mistake, a stupid mistake.

No, I don't love her! I hardly even know her.

I love you.

Why don't I believe you?

How could you do this?

How can I ever trust you again?

Why was she in his arms? How could she let him hold her when he was the last person whose touch she wanted? Because she needed comfort, and he was the one she'd always gone to when she was hurting. But now she couldn't erase the thought that he'd held someone else in these arms, in the spot that was supposed to be hers and only hers. She pulled away and ran to their bedroom, slamming the door, locking him out of her pain.

Please unlock the door.


I love you.

I'm sorry.

I hate you.