Oh, the joys of curiosity! It all started with an innocent tiptoe and a heart pounding like a drum solo from a 70s rock band. I slid into the house unnoticed, hearing those classic hushed tones coming from the living room. Intrigue and dread mingled, driving me to channel my inner sleuth.What I saw nearly stopped my heart in its tracks: my husband, slouched miserably on the couch, his face buried in his hands like he was auditioning for a melodramatic soap opera.

Trying to ease my way into whatever drama was unfolding, I squeaked out, “What’s wrong?” If there were awards for shocked faces, my husband and his parents would have been frontrunners. Their heads whipped up with the speed of startled owls.His eyes, red and tear-stricken, met mine. “It’s nothing, sweetheart,” he mumbled, in the least convincing tone ever.

Oh, please. Like anyone was going to let that slide. The atmosphere was thick enough to slice with a butter knife. “Please, tell me,” I insisted, inching closer like a detective smelling a big clue.After what felt like an eternity where you could hear a pin drop, he took a shaky breath, and the confession came: “I can’t keep pretending everything is okay,” his voice wavering like a flickering candle in the wind.