The sound of my husband Michael’s voice echoing from the bedroom stopped me in my tracks. In fifteen years of marriage, I had never heard him call out sick to work. He was the type of man who wore exhaustion like a badge of honor, who pushed through everything from migraines to pulled muscles with stubborn determination. So when I heard him on the phone with his boss, explaining that he felt terrible and wouldn’t be coming in, something deep in my chest shifted uncomfortably.
I knocked softly on our bedroom door before entering. Michael was hunched over the edge of the bed, still in yesterday’s clothes, his face pale and drawn. His dark hair, usually carefully styled for work, stuck out at odd angles, giving him an almost boyish appearance that reminded me of the man I’d married all those years ago.
