The week before our vacation, I caught myself watching my husband, Tom, across the dinner table and realizing I couldn’t remember the last real conversation we’d had. We’d been living like roommates for almost a year and desperately needed one week to feel like husband and wife again.
Two careers, two phones, two separate exhaustions sitting on the same couch.
So when he booked the resort, I cried a little in the bathroom. Not because I was sad, but because I was relieved.
“One week,” he’d promised me. “No work calls. Just us.”
I held onto that vacation for months like a life raft.
We’d been living like roommates.