I can taste his anxiety in the air, sharp and painful, pressing in on him. Not that he’s told me. Not that I know lately where his anxiety is, or what’s troubling him. The past few months, when I suspected he was having a tough time, he’d smile, falsely bright, then say he had work and disappear into our little home office. The room that’s supposed to become a nursery. I wonder if…I wonder if things have been hard—harder than usual—and he hasn’t told me. And if so, why? If so much of what’s been distant between us is because he’s carrying burdens he doesn’t want to share, how could I ever
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