“You’re doing more good in one semester,” he said, looking me right in the eyes, “than some people do in a lifetime.”
That night, I sat in our bedroom, curled on the edge of the bed. Ethan rubbed my back gently as I cried. Not from the hurt anymore, but because, for the first time in years, someone had truly seen me.
Someone had defended me, not out of obligation, but because I mattered.
For the next few months, Karen disappeared. No calls. No texts.
No invitations to her brunches or family functions. At first, I waited for the next blow-up, the apology that never came, or even a new jab masked as a joke.
But nothing happened.
And honestly? It was peaceful.
Ethan didn’t push the topic much, though I could tell it bothered him.
He’d ask occasionally, “Should I call her?” And I’d just shrug. I didn’t want to feed the drama. I didn’t need an apology that I knew wasn’t coming.
Then, one evening, Ethan walked through the door looking pale.
He dropped his bag by the couch, loosened his tie, and rubbed his forehead like he had a migraine.
I stood up from the kitchen counter. “What’s wrong?”
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