For ten years, Adam and I shared everything — a life, a home, and a bed. So when he suddenly moved to the guest room, saying my snoring kept him awake, I believed him and felt guilty. I tried everything — nasal strips, pillows, tea, even doctor visits — desperate to fix a problem I couldn’t even hear myself making.

At my doctor’s suggestion, I set up a recorder to capture my “snoring.” The next morning, heart pounding, I played it back. I didn’t hear snores. I heard a child’s soft laugh — and Adam’s voice whispering, “Shhh, buddy. We have to be quiet. She’s sleeping.” We don’t have children. Not anymore. Our son Roger died three years ago.

That night, I found Adam in the guest room watching videos of Roger — laughing, running, alive. He couldn’t sleep without hearing him; hiding in the dark replaying memories, terrified of dragging me back into grief. He never left because of my snoring — he left because he didn’t know how to grieve beside me.

We cried together, finally sharing the pain we had been carrying alone. Adam returned to our bed, and slowly, we began healing side by side — not moving on from our son, but learning to carry his memory together. Grief didn’t break us; silence almost did. But love — the love we still had for him and each other — helped us find our way back.