Ethan and I were the kind of couple that people called solid. We were thirty seven years old, married for eight years, and settled into a life of comfortable domesticity. Our weekends were defined by herb gardens we forgot to water, half watched Netflix documentaries, and the quiet rhythm of a marriage that had survived the heaviest of burdens. We had navigated job losses, health scares, and the devastating grief of two miscarriages. I believed that because we had bled together through those tragedies, there were no shadows left between us. I was wrong. The first crack in our foundation...
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