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I often look back and try to pinpoint the exact moment my marriage began to crack. But the truth is, I can only pinpoint the moment it finally shattered — and it happened on a quiet Friday afternoon, in the most ordinary way imaginable. Not during an argument, not during a confession, not during a dramatic turning point like in movies.
It started with a carton of forgotten milk. For sixteen years, I had believed with my whole heart that our marriage was steady, warm, and deeply rooted. David and I had built a home together in a small, tree-lined suburban neighborhood, the kind of place where porch swings creaked in the breeze and children rode bikes until sunset.
Our front yard bloomed year-round, and neighbors often commented on how peaceful our home felt. People used to tell me — almost admiringly: “You’re so lucky. He’s such a…
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