The Missing

by Kiersten Modglin

I spent my days making our home beautiful, reading the books I loved, lounging by the pool, and working out. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a purpose, but that Barrett had become my purpose. For

Sometimes we know the truth about the people we love; we know the truth in our bones and in the fiber of our being, but we can’t admit it, not even to ourselves. Sometimes the truth lies in the quiet moments, in the first thoughts, the answer that pops into our heads before we have time to tamp down the intuition that we so often do, because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

We’d rather live with the mistakes we’ve made, shut out the things we’ve learned, the way we’ve grown, than take on the challenge of admitting our marriage sucks, or our friend is toxic, or our relationship with our parents isn’t healthy.

But here, on the island with nothing to muddle my head, only silence and my thoughts, I’d been forced to reckon with what I’d known for so long. My husband didn’t love me. Not like he should. He tolerated me, sure. Took care of me. But some days I felt like little more than something to interrupt his constant flow of work.