Even the strongest marriages aren’t immune to conflict, and one evening my husband and I had an argument that rattled me more than usual.

We rarely clashed, but that night our words felt heavy, lingering long after the shouting had stopped. The next morning, when he left for work, I sat alone in silence, replaying everything and questioning what had gone so wrong.

That’s when my eyes drifted to the small journal he always kept in his nightstand. My conscience screamed at me to leave it shut, yet my need to understand outweighed my hesitation. I opened it without realizing how profoundly it would alter the way I saw him.

The first entries brought a smile. He had written about our early years – his joy, his hopes, the dreams he still carried for us. But as I turned more pages, my chest tightened. His words grew darker, full of quiet anguish.

Again and again, he wrote about the pain of losing his father, the weight of grief he couldn’t voice, and the anxiety that followed him daily. None of it was directed at me, yet the rawness in his writing revealed a suffering I had been blind to in the man who always tried to appear unshakable.

A fl00d of guilt hi:t me.

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