One morning, over breakfast, I asked him where he had gone.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, staring into his coffee. “Went for a drive.”
Something in his tone told me that wasn’t the whole truth.
That night, I made a decision. I pretended to fall asleep early and lay perfectly still, listening to his breathing until it deepened. Just after midnight, I felt him slip out of bed.
When the door closed, I moved quickly. I dressed, grabbed my keys, and followed his car at a distance.
Following Him Into the Unknown
Ryan drove far longer than I expected. Past familiar streets, beyond places tied to our shared life. Nearly an hour later, he turned into the parking lot of a worn-down building with peeling paint and a flickering sign that read “Hope Recovery Center.”
I parked and watched as he sat in his car, unmoving, as if gathering courage. Finally, he stepped out and went inside.
My heart raced. A hundred fears flooded my mind. I waited before moving closer.
Through an open window, I heard voices. A group. Someone was speaking about fear, about helplessness, about nearly losing everything that mattered.
I recognized Ryan’s voice before I saw him.
Inside, people sat in a circle. Ryan was there, his shoulders shaking as he spoke.
He talked about the delivery room. About watching doctors rush around me. About holding our newborn while fearing he might lose me. He spoke about nightmares that wouldn’t stop replaying those moments.
Every word cut through me
