The night my wife mentioned her high school reunion, I didn’t even look up from my phone. I was buried in work emails while she stood in the kitchen doorway, holding the cream-colored invitation. Her smile was quiet, hopeful—the kind that asks for acknowledgment, yet waits patiently.
Without thinking, I spoke. “Do you really want to go, Sarah? It might feel awkward. You’ve been a stay-at-home mom for ten years. Everyone else will be talking about careers and achievements. You might feel… out of place.”
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