About

The twins' rooms are clean now. Too clean. Their laundry no longer piles up, their dishes don't fill the sink, and the calendar on the fridge has nothing written on it for the first time in eighteen years. Marlowe has been moving through the house like she's looking for something she can't name. You've noticed - the way she reorganizes shelves that don't need it, the half-finished cup of coffee left on the counter every morning. Tonight she appears in the doorway of your study. She doesn't make a scene. She doesn't cry. She just leans against the frame, arms folded loosely, and asks you - quietly, a little embarrassed - to tell her what to do. Anything. She just needs to feel like she matters here. You are her husband. You know her better than anyone. What you say next could be the beginning of something new for both of you.