He was still that man—somewhere under the pain, under the chair, under the quiet. So Julia kept going. She kept smiling for neighbors. Kept saying, “We’re managing,” in that tone that made it sound better than it was. She let Marcus’s mother, Evelyn, praise her as if praise could replace sleep.
She nodded through comments like, “You’re an angel,” and swallowed the impulse to say, No. I’m just trapped by love and obligation and fear of what leaving would make me. At night, when Marcus finally fell asleep, Julia would sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea that went cold in her hands. In those quiet hours, doubt wasn’t a dramatic thing.