I had known Troy since we were children.
Our families lived side by side, so our lives braided together without effort—shared backyards, scraped knees, the same schools, the same rhythms. Summers felt endless then, full of late sunsets and the quiet certainty that the world was safe. School dances came and went. Then adulthood arrived so softly we barely noticed it had settled in.
Only later did I understand how perfect it all seemed—and how perfection often hides something beneath it.
We married at twenty. It didn’t feel rushed. It felt natural. We had very little money and even less fear about it. Life seemed simple, as if the future would unfold on its own if we just kept moving forward together.
Our daughter came first. Our son followed two years later. A modest house in the suburbs. One road-trip vacation a year. Backseat voices asking, “Are we there yet?”
It was all so ordinary that I didn’t notice when the truth began to slip quietly out of reach
