But as the years passed, the explanation began to wear thin.
“What about the kids?” I asked one summer, forcing a light tone. “Aren’t they immediate family?”
Michael sighed. The same tired sigh he always used when he wanted a conversation to end. “I don’t want to spend the whole trip chasing after them. It’s supposed to be relaxing.”
That answer hurt more than I admitted at the time.
Every July, I watched him leave while I stayed behind. I handled summer schedules, meals, camps, scraped knees, bedtime routines, and the endless invisible labor of parenting. I told myself it was only a week. That marriage required compromise. Maybe I was being unreasonable.
Still, something felt off.
Michael wasn’t careless or cruel. He was gentle, conflict-avoidant, and deeply uncomfortable with emotional tension. He hated arguments, hated raised voices, hated disappointment. For a long time, I believed that meant he was kind.
Eventually, I realized it also meant he avoided difficult truths.
There were small inconsistencies over the years. He never showed photos from these trips. He rarely shared details. When I asked who went, his answers were vague. “My brothers.” “My parents.” “Family friends.” Sometimes his stories contradicted things he had said before.
I ignored it.
