The night my wife mentioned her high school reunion, I barely lifted my eyes from my phone.

She stood in the kitchen doorway, the light catching the edge of the invitation in her hands. There was a hopeful softness in her smile—one I didn’t fully notice until it disappeared. Without thinking, without cruelty but full of quiet arrogance, I spoke.

“Do you really want to go?” I said lightly. “I mean… it might be awkward. You’re just a stay-at-home mom now. You might feel out of place.”

The words lingered in the air longer than I expected.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t argue. She simply nodded once, folded the invitation carefully, and placed it in the drawer with the bills and instruction manuals—things quietly set aside.

Something shifted that night.