For four years, I told myself I could survive anything as long as Jane made it to graduation.
That was the promise I lived on when my feet ached too badly to stand, when bills sat open on the kitchen table like accusations, when I came home so tired I forgot whether I had eaten or only thought about eating.
There was no screaming, no dramatic affair confession, no broken dishes on the kitchen floor. Just one quiet conversation after Jane had gone to bed.
He sat across from me at the table and said, “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
I remember staring at him, confused. “Do what?”