Chapter 2: The Breaking Point

At 4 a.m., Rachel still hadn’t come home. I was sprawled across our king-size bed, the sheets cold on her side, my phone screen glowing with the time. Her absence pressed into the quiet house like a bruise.

In the past, nights like this would have me unraveling—anger boiling up, blowing up her phone, pacing circles around the kitchen while the smell of burnt toast from yesterday still lingered, the morning news murmuring from the living room TV. I’d leave voicemails laced with frustration, then delete them, embarrassed by my own desperation.

But tonight, I was calm. No anger, just a dull, hollow ache. Maybe this was what giving up felt like.

She came home just as the sun started painting the living room gold, the front door squeaking open. She carried a bag from the corner deli—fresh bagels, a bottle of Tropicana OJ—and flashed me a breezy smile, like she’d just gone for a jog. “Was out with Jake last night. We lost track of time. I figured if I rolled in late, I’d wake you, so I just crashed somewhere else.”

She tossed me a playful wink, landing her next words like a punchline: “Separate beds, okay? Double room.”

Jake is her next-door neighbor from childhood. They grew up in side-by-side houses on Willow Lane—the kind of kids old ladies call ‘childhood sweethearts’ in Christmas cards.

But as she always says, she and Jake are just lifers—more like siblings than lovers. She loves to tease that if she stood stark naked in front of him, he’d just ask her to pass the TV remote.

I’ve watched her and Jake goof around like middle-schoolers: roughhousing, laughing so hard they snort, her arm slung around his neck or piggybacking down the driveway at a Fourth of July barbecue. Jake just grins and lets her climb all over him, sometimes pinching her cheeks like she’s twelve again.

Every time, my stomach twists. I’d pull Rachel aside and quietly remind her to watch herself, to remember what’s appropriate now that we’re married. I’d try to catch her eye, but she’d already be turning away, scrolling her phone or rattling her keys, my words barely registering.

At first, she’d take the time to reassure me, her voice soft, promising there was nothing to worry about.

But soon enough, she’d get snappier. “Sam, if Jake and I were ever gonna hook up, trust me, it would’ve happened before you even showed up. Why are you making this a thing now?”

Jake would always hover nearby, hands shoved in his jeans, that fake laid-back act on display. “Dude, you’re way too uptight. Rach isn’t even a woman to me—she’s like my little sister. Could I have those kinds of thoughts about my own sister? That’s just gross, man.”

Looking at his smug, easy smile, I’d think: You’re not fooling anyone, Jake. Wolf in sheep’s clothing, for sure.

There was a stretch when Rachel actually tried to keep her distance from Jake.

She was home more, almost clingy—snuggling up on the couch, begging me to rub her back and legs, coaxing me to cook her favorite comfort food.

Every dinner, she’d want the full spread—meatloaf, green beans, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, sometimes even a side salad. If I so much as sighed, she’d pout, lips trembling. “So I’m not allowed to go out, and now I can’t even eat good food at home? What’s the point, Sam?”

With no choice, I’d swallow my frustration and go full Top Chef, flipping eggs and stirring pots until the kitchen looked like a Food Network marathon exploded.

She started posting my cooking on her Instagram Stories, complete with hashtags and heart emojis. “Shout-out to my home chef!” she’d write, tagging me.

Jake commented under every post, “Your Sam really is a model househusband.”

Other friends chimed in: “No wonder you never want to go out—someone’s spoiling you!”

The whole exchange felt loaded, like a group text where you’re the punchline. I couldn’t help but scowl at my phone.

Rachel noticed and got defensive: “You’re a grown man, why so sensitive? I brag about you and you get all weird. Fine, no more posting you on Instagram, happy?”

After a couple more rounds of this, I was always painted as the jealous, uptight husband. Rachel’s patience thinned, and we grew further apart, like I was drifting somewhere she couldn’t reach, no matter how hard I tried.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Rachel waved her hand in front of my face, snapping me out of it. I looked at her—mascara smudged, blouse wrinkled, hair a little wild—and all I felt was exhaustion. My shoulders slumped, a weight pressing between them.

She must’ve caught my vibe, because her voice softened, her eyes big and pleading. “Honey, are you mad?”

I didn’t answer. She took my hand anyway, giving it a squeeze. “Don’t be upset, okay? I’ll hang with you this afternoon, alright? Didn’t you want a new suit? Let’s hit the mall—I’ll buy it for you, my treat.”

This is her pattern—she’ll push me right to the edge, then reel me back in with some sweet gesture, confident that I’ll always forgive her.

That afternoon, she dragged me to the mall, making a beeline for my favorite stores. She moved through the racks like a pro, picking out a charcoal gray plaid suit—the exact cut I always go for.

“This one looks great—go try it on.”

I changed, checking myself out in the three-way mirror, then came out to see her FaceTiming someone, waving her phone around like she was filming a reality show.

I walked over, and there was Jake’s grinning face on the screen. She gushed, “This suit looks amazing—I spotted it right away.” Spotting me, she called out, “Honey, doesn’t this just scream Jake’s style? Reserved but, you know, passionate?”

Jake chuckled on the other end: “So what, Rach, you gonna buy it and bring it over?”

“That’s just a word away.”

They kept bantering like this was their private show. I quietly slipped away, picked another suit, and headed back to the fitting room.

I paid for my suit, poker-faced. She was still on video with Jake, laughing, so I left the store by myself, letting the automatic doors shut behind me.

Rachel chased me out, heels clacking. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

“Are you mad again? Is that really necessary?”

I flashed a tight smile. “No, not mad.”

And this time, it was the truth. I really wasn’t. I’d gotten used to it—the whole lopsided routine.

As Rachel’s laughter echoed from the hallway, I realized—I was no longer angry. Just numb. And maybe that was worse.