So I lie still and let him hold me.
For a few seconds it feels like the beginning of something.
And then Ruby coughs in the baby monitor and my whole body tenses automatically. Like a wire pulled taut.
Dan’s arm tightens, soothing. He’s trying.
I know he is.
That’s the problem with a slow decline, you don’t notice it happening. It doesn’t arrive with a bang. It creeps in quietly, disguised as normal.
It shows up in the most ordinary things.
Like realising the last text Dan sent was just the word:
bin
Or that I can’t remember the last time we kissed properly. Not a peck in the chaos. A real kiss. The kind that used to mean something. The kind that used to make my stomach flip and my pulse rise.
I stare into the dark, listening to his breathing.
We did try. God, we tried.
We clung to the pact like it was a life raft.
At first, we were almost smug about it.
Look at us. Still us-ing.
Once a week, date night. Non-negotiable.
Sometimes it was out. Drinks. Cinema. A mildly disappointing but enthusiastic fumble in the car like teenagers, laughing into each other’s mouths because it felt ridiculous and familiar all at once.
Other times it was in. Candles. Takeaway. A film we barely watched because we were too busy trying to pretend we had the energy to be romantic.
We’d sit on the sofa at 8 p.m. forcing ourselves awake.
“Okay,” Dan would say, putting his phone face down. “Date night.”
And I’d smile at him, determined.
He’d look at me with that hopeful softness that still makes my chest ache.
And for a while… it worked.
Until the monitor crackled.
Until Sophie appeared in the doorway with an emergency that was not an emergency.
“Mummy, my teddy is looking at me weird.”
Or Oscar, whisper-shouting like that made it better.
“Dad. I need to tell you something about dinosaurs. It’s important.”
By the time we’d got everyone back down, the food was cold, the candles were pathetic wax puddles, and Dan was rubbing his temples like he’d aged five years in one hour.
We didn’t say it out loud, but we both thought it.
