I flinched.
"You think him being gone all the time is about work? It's not. He doesn't want to be here. He's not tired. He's not overwhelmed. He's just... not interested."
"Jimmy—" My voice broke, but I cleared my throat and pressed on. "That's not fair. He's under a lot of pressure. He has meetings, travel, responsibilities—"
He slammed his hand on the table, making Alice jump. "Stop. Just stop, Mom." His voice shook. "You always do this. Always making excuses for him. Always covering for him like he's some fragile prince who just needs more time."
I opened my mouth to protest, but he wasn't finished.
"Keep doing it. Seriously. Keep trying. Maybe if you keep defending him, he'll finally see you. Maybe if you pretend hard enough, one day he'll actually notice you. Or even better—maybe he'll love you back."
His voice cracked on that last word, and it ripped straight through me.
I stared at him, stunned. The room went quiet. Alice didn't understand the weight of what he'd said, but I did. Every word landed like a punch.
Jimmy shoved his chair back and stood up. "I'm going to the neighbor's. Just for an hour."
Normally I'd argue. I'd tell him it was too late, that he had homework, that he couldn't just wander off into the night. But tonight?
Tonight I didn't have the strength.
"Okay," I whispered.
He didn't say goodbye. Didn't glance back. The door closed behind him with a soft click that felt louder than any scream.
And then it was just me and Alice, and the empty seat at the end of the table. 
Was that how he saw me?
A doormat.
Not a mother trying to hold it together with shaking hands and sleepless nights. Not a woman who stood at the edge of a cliff every single day, planting herself between the drop and her children, praying the ground wouldn't give out beneath her. Not someone surviving on scraps of affection, on the memory of who he used to be, hoping it would be enough to keep the house from crumbling.
Just a woman who stayed.
Who accepted the silence. The distance. The missed dinners because love was supposed to be worth it. But maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe to him, I wasn't strength. I wasn't endurance. I wasn't love. Maybe I was just... a woman who stayed too long. Who kept the house warm while he forgot what it meant to come home.
I tried to keep it together. I always do. I tell myself I'm strong, that I can carry all of this on my back—the silence, the distance, the way Thomas looks through me like I'm barely there. I convince myself that I'm doing it for the kids, for the home we've built, for the life we once dreamed of together.
But tonight, while I was cleaning up after dinner, something in me cracked. My hands trembled as I washed the same plate twice. I felt the tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and before I could stop them, they spilled over. I turned away quickly, hoping Alice wouldn't see.
She was just sitting there, playing with her dolls on the floor, humming a tune she made up. Too young to understand the weight in the room, but not too young to feel it. Children always feel it.
And that's what gutted me the most.
It hit me like a slow, cold wave—how my children are growing up watching me chase after the affection of a man who doesn't even turn around. They're watching me shrink. Watching me apologize for existing too loudly. Watching me try to earn the love of someone who only offers scraps, if anything at all.
They're starting to see me the way he sees me.
Less. Not strong. Not capable. Not even worthy of attention. 
And that terrified me. Because what happens when Alice grows up thinking this is what love looks like? When Jimmy decides men don't need to show up emotionally as long as they provide financially? What am I teaching them, staying in this quiet, breaking war of a marriage?
I wiped my face quickly, forcing a smile when Alice looked up and asked if I was okay.
"I'm just tired, baby," I whispered.
But I wasn't tired. I was unraveling.
The ache in my chest was still there, but something else started to rise, burning hotter beneath the grief.
The fury was back.
Not wild or reckless. But cold. Controlled. Ready.
The part of me that remembered I was still a woman before I was his wife, still a mother before I was ever their peacekeeper. The part of me that knew silence wouldn't save me.
This time, I wouldn't swallow it down.
 This time, I would answer it.