He was dragging this crate of clothes down a street that looked like it hadn’t changed in years—dust clinging to every crack in the concrete like it belonged there. His hands gripped the sides like they were the only things keeping him upright. Sweat was dripping down his face, soaking into the collar of his shirt, but he kept going. The sound of the crate scraping along the road was the only thing that dared break the silence.
Then he just stopped.
Like his legs decided enough was enough.
His breath was short and sharp, chest rising and falling like he was trying to breathe through a heavy blanket. The road stretched ahead, quiet and long, fading into dusk. And for a second, everything went still. It was like the world paused just long enough to let his mind wander back—to a kitchen full of noise and warmth and the smell of apples and cinnamon.
He could see it again, like it was playing on the back of his eyelids: the chipped table, the mismatched chairs, the laughter bouncing off the walls. His wife—God, her smile—cutting apples like it was her own kind of magic, passing them to the kids with this soft look in her eyes. The little one snatching a slice and giggling as juice ran down her chin. The boy, more quiet, just watching, chewing slow, content. And him, sitting there, just... full. Like his chest had stretched wide enough to hold all that joy. That moment. That peace.
And then—just like that—it was gone.
Snapped back to the now, crate still pressing into his palms, and the street in front of him suddenly looked different. He looked up, squinting toward the corner where he always turned to head home. And that’s when he saw her.
His wife.
But she wasn’t alone.
There was another man. Laughing with her. Touching her like he’d done it before. Too close. Too easy. And she laughed too—his laugh. The one he used to hear over dinner. The one that used to be for him.
Everything inside him just... paused. His whole body forgot what to do. It was like watching a version of his life he never signed up for. A life where he didn’t belong.
Then she saw him.
And everything changed.
Her smile cracked. Eyes wide, guilt pouring out of her before she even tried to hide it. And then, she turned away. Just like that. Straightened up, slipped back into whatever mask she wore for this man, and walked away.
He didn’t move. Couldn’t.
There was no anger, not yet. Just this deep, bone-heavy ache. And still—he pushed the crate forward. Because what else was there to do?
When he got home, the kids ran up to him like nothing had happened. Because to them, nothing had. “Papa!” The little one’s voice cracked open something in him. He forced a smile, one of those “I’m fine” ones that hurt more than it helps.
“Go wash up,” he told them, voice quiet, tired.
He headed into the kitchen and tried to lose himself in dinner prep—cutting the vegetables, stirring the pot—but his hands kept shaking. His mind kept flashing back. He knew it was not easy for him, and he that she knew she is suffering to be held every day just so their children could have something to eat. But it also hurt him to see him selling himself.
The food was ready, kids already at the table, but her seat was empty.
“Go on, eat,” he said, not really looking at them. “I’ll wait for your mother.”
He stood outside the door. Just waited. Not even sure for what. He didn’t even know what he’d say when he saw her.
And then there she was.
Walking back home like the world hadn’t fallen apart. Her steps were slow, heavy. Her clothes looked thrown together. Her hair was a mess. And those bruises… God. Deep and dark and ugly. But her eyes—her eyes were worse. They were full of guilt and something else. Shame maybe. Or regret. Maybe both.
She didn’t say anything.
Neither did he.
He just walked up and looked at the bruises, gently, like he was afraid of breaking her more. She was shaking. He could feel it.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Like it was all she had left.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He pulled her into him, arms tight around her, holding all the broken pieces together the only way he knew how. He didn’t hug her to fix her. He hugged her so she’d remember she still had a place. With him. With them.
He led her inside.
The kids looked up, unsure. She gave them a tired smile. Forced, but trying. She sat beside them, and he sat across. Dinner was quiet. No one cared that it was cold.
Then the little one said something silly—mouth full of rice, crumbs everywhere—and her laugh just slipped out. Soft. Surprised.
And he looked at her—not the woman from the street, but the girl he fell in love with at that old table, over apple slices and second chances. And when she smiled again, something inside him softened. Just enough.
He smiled back. And then he laughed too.
It was rough, like something that had been buried too long. But it felt right.
So they sat—husband and wife, kids between them—eating dinner that had gone cold but tasted like warmth anyway. No yelling. No blaming. Just quiet. Just laughter. Just enough.
For tonight, that was enough
