I believed my nine-year marriage was solid. Then my husband mocked my cooking, his phone buzzed on the counter, and one message from my younger sister made me realize everything I trusted was built on a lie.I used to think our marriage was… normal. Not the Pinterest kind. Not the “we have a matching set of luggage and a dog named Biscuit” kind. But normal enough that, if you asked me at a work happy hour, I’d smile into my drink and go:“Yeah. Nine years. It’s good.”And I would’ve believed myself.

We lived in a decent house in a decent neighborhood. Beige walls, a couch we bought on sale, a kitchen that always smelled faintly like coffee, and whatever candle I was pretending fixed my stress.My husband, Mark, was the kind of man who looked like he had it together. Button-down shirts. Clean shoes. Charming when he wanted to be.He could hold a door for an elderly woman and then, five minutes later, act like I was dramatic because I said something that hurt my feelings.I worked full-time. He worked full-time. We split the bills. We split chores… in theory.In practice, I did more, but I told myself that was just how marriage worked. People take turns carrying the weight. Sometimes you carry more.