But Joshua started drifting.

At first, it was subtle. He came home later than usual.

“Tough day at work, Hanna,” he’d say, avoiding my eyes.

He’d eat with us, smile at the boys, then disappear into his office before dessert. I found myself cleaning up alone, wiping sticky fingerprints off the fridge, listening to the low murmur of his phone calls behind a closed door.

When Matthew spilled juice and William dissolved into tears, I was the one kneeling on the kitchen floor, whispering, “It’s okay, sweetie. I’ve got you.”

Joshua was gone—“work emergency,” he’d say—or absorbed in the blue glow of his laptop.

One night, after another long evening and too many peas scattered under the table, I finally asked, “Josh, are you okay?”

He barely looked up. “Just tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Are you… happy?”

He shut the laptop a little too hard. “Hanna, you know I am. We wanted this, right?”

I nodded, but something inside me twisted.

Then one afternoon, the boys napped at the same time. I crept down the hall, desperate for a moment to breathe. As I passed Joshua’s office, I heard his voice—low, strained.

“I can’t keep lying to her. She thinks I wanted a family with her…”

My hand flew to my mouth.

I moved closer, heart pounding.

“But I didn’t adopt the boys because of this,” he said, his voice breaking.