Toward the end of the second year, something in him changed. He grew distant, not angry, not cruel, just absent. His touch became polite. Conversations stayed surface-deep. He started spending longer hours at work, or sitting in the garage under the pretense of fixing things that didn’t need fixing.
She knew what it meant without needing him to say it. He wanted a family, and she couldn’t give him one. Once, she caught him standing in the half-painted nursery, looking at the empty crib they’d never used.