I had what I thought was a good, solid marriage. Not perfect, not full of fireworks, but safe and solid — dependable. I’m Claire, I’m 28 years old and for the longest time, I thought that being with someone like Ethan was the best decision I’d ever made. He was kind and loving, reliable and patient in ways I’d always respected. But underneath our calm domesticity, I nursed a series of quiet doubts that I never found the courage to address head on.
I never voiced them directly to Ethan. Instead, I carted them around as little pebbles in my pocket — never heavy enough to cause any real pain, but just there enough to get on my nerves. I compared my life with others, unintentionally. Friends who traveled all the time, couples who shared these glorious romantic gestures on social media, people whose lives looked like they were oozing passion from every crevice. Our life felt… routine. Predictable. And I hated myself for wanting more, because Ethan had never been anything but good to me.
I confided these feelings to my sister Anna, the only person I confided in about the more self-defeating aspects of myself. And I would call her on hard days, and vent about how tired I always felt, how too little too much of the time I had no idea what I was doing, and how sometimes Ethan and I were…
