Our estrangement began subtly, like a slow leak in a sealed room. I noticed it early on, and I'm sure he did too. But neither of us said a word. We waited - for the other to speak, to initiate, to break the silence.
And when that didn't happen, we let the silence grow roots. Maybe we were afraid. Afraid of what the conversation might reveal. Afraid that once we opened the door, we wouldn't be able to close it again. That it would lead us down a path we couldn't return from.
We became reclusive. Isolated. Two people living under the same roof, haunted by the same ghost, yet unable to reach for each other. We forgot that even in tragedy, a new foundation could be built. That love, when tested, could be reforged. But we didn't try. We didn't trust. We didn't speak.
Was our bond so fragile that it couldn't withstand the storm? Did we not believe in each other enough to hold hands and walk through the fire together? Why didn't we give each other the space to be honest - even if it meant hurting one another? Why did we choose silence over truth?
We drifted. We surrendered. We let the death of our child become the death of us.
And somewhere deep inside, I began to believe that he blamed me too. That he, like the others, saw my decision that night as the catalyst. He never said it. But he didn't have to. His silence was loud enough. And maybe he thought my grief was punishment enough. That I was already cursing myself every day. That I didn't need his words to confirm what I already believed.
He doesn't know how many nights I've wished death had taken me too. That I had gone with her. That I had been spared this slow, agonizing existence. I've woken up gasping for air, drenched in sweat, praying for release. But death doesn't come easy to those meant to suffer. "It's not your time yet, my child," it whispers, mocking me.