“You were wrong?”
He cut me off.
“Do you have any idea what these last eighteen years have been like for me? Lying on that couch every night, hearing you breathe in the next room and wondering why I was torturing myself like this?”
“Then why didn’t you divorce me?”
I was crying openly now.
“Because I didn’t want to hurt Jake. Because I didn’t want to be the subject of town gossip. Because I didn’t want you to be humiliated at your job.”
His eyes were red.
“But you… did you ever once think about how I felt? Did you ever think about what it did to my heart, seeing you with that man?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
It was all I could say, over and over.
“Stop saying sorry.”
He stood up.
“Let’s just keep things the way they are. It’s fine.”
That night, I threw out the entire meal along with my last shred of hope.
By 2024, Noah was nine. Jake and his family visited several times a year, the boy’s energy breathing life into our quiet house.
“Grandma, what were you and Grandpa like when you were young?”
Noah asked one day, climbing onto my lap.
“When we were young?”
I stroked his hair.
“Oh, Grandpa was very handsome, and Grandma was very pretty.”
“How did you meet? In college?”
I smiled.
“Grandpa chased after Grandma for a very long time.”
“Does Grandpa still like Grandma now?”
The question caught me off guard.
“Of course he does.”
I forced a smile.
“But I don’t think Grandpa likes Grandma very much.”
Noah tilted his head.
“He never holds your hand, and you don’t sleep together.”
“Noah.”
Sarah walked over quickly.
“Don’t say things like that.”
“I’m not lying,” he insisted. “My teacher says people who love each other hold hands and hug.”
“All right. Time to do your homework.”
Jake pulled his son away.
I sat on the couch, my heart a hollow space. Even a nine-year-old could see our marriage was not normal.
In 2025, I turned fifty-eight. My old school district organized a health screening for retired teachers. I went in for a full workup, blood tests, X-rays, and an ultrasound.
“You’re in great shape, Mrs. Miller. A little anemic, maybe. Eat some more spinach.”
The nurse smiled and handed me my results. I took them to the gynecologist, Dr. Evans. She looked at my chart, her brow furrowed.
“Susan, I need to ask you a rather personal question.”
She looked up.
“Have you and your husband maintained a normal, intimate life over the years?”
The question made my face burn.
“Does… does that have to do with my checkup?”
“It does.”
Dr. Evans pointed to the screen.
“Based on your results, I’m seeing some abnormal indicators. If you’re comfortable, could you tell me more?”
I hesitated, then told her the truth.
“My husband and I… we haven’t been intimate in eighteen years.”
Dr. Evans looked surprised, then sighed.
“Eighteen years? Susan, do you have any idea the physical impact that can have?”
“I… I don’t.”
“A long-term lack of intimacy can lead to hormonal imbalances, a weakened immune system, and even increase the risk for certain diseases.”
She said it gently.
“And from a psychological standpoint, it takes a significant toll on your mental health.”
I looked down at my hands, ashamed.
“Susan, may I ask why? Is it an issue with your husband, or—”
“It’s my fault.”
I interrupted her.
“I wronged him.”
Dr. Evans looked at me with pity.
“I see.”
She typed a few notes.
“Susan, I need to do a more detailed examination. Do you have time today?”
“Yes.”
“Then come with me.”
