Two years ago, my husband Mark held my face in his hands after a fight and said, “Do you even like me anymore?” I didn’t answer. We’d been arguing about laundry. Laundry. But the real fight was older—buried under sleepless nights with colicky babies, promotions I missed because his job required moves, a decade of “I’m fine”s that meant “I’m drowning.” That night, he rolled over in bed and whispered, “Sarah, are you awake?” I was. But I stayed silent, breathing slow and steady until he sighed and turned away. I’ve done this 27 times since. When he tried to hold my hand during a movie? “I need wine,” I said, pulling away. When he suggested a weekend trip? “Too expensive.” When he asked if I still wanted to renew our vows? “Let’s talk later.” I told myself I was protecting him. If I let him in, he’ll see how empty I feel. How resentful. How bored. Then, last Thursday, I found the note. It was tucked in his gym bag—a crumpled Post-it with “Realtor: 3pm Tues” scribbled on it. My stomach dropped. He’s leaving. I confronted him, shaking. “Are you… looking at apartments?” Mark stared. Then laughed—a sad, hollow sound. “It’s for us*. You said you hated this house. I’ve been saving for a down payment. Wanted it to be a surprise.”* He opened his laptop. Spreadsheets. Budgets. Pinterest boards titled “Sarah’s Dream Kitchen.” “Why?” I asked. “Because I still choose you,” he said. “Even when you’re faking sleep.”