It began like any loud, messy afternoon—lost shoes, spilled cereal, and a toddler banging on pots like a one-kid band. I was half-scrolling on my phone when my wife, Anna, mentioned her upcoming high school reunion. She stood at the counter, twirling her hair the way she does when something matters more than she lets on.
“They’re planning a ten-year reunion next month,” she said quietly. “I was thinking of going.”
I barely looked up. I laughed, shrugged, and asked why she would even bother. Then I said the word that changed the entire mood of the room.
“Just.”
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