I’ve never told anyone this. Not my closest friends, not my therapist, certainly not my family. But it’s been eating me alive, a constant, dull ache that flares into an unbearable inferno whenever I close my eyes. It started, really, on a drive home. A drive I swore would be different, a drive I promised myself would make us different. We were always rushing. Always. To school, to work, to soccer practice, to dinner. Even our ‘downtime’ was scheduled, planned, meticulously fit into overflowing calendars. My partner and I, we were a machine, a well-oiled operation, but one that had forgotten how to breathe, how to simply be. The kids? They were just cogs in our efficiency. God, that sounds terrible, doesn’t it? But it’s the truth. We communicated in clipped sentences, in to-do lists, in frustrated sighs. We thought we were providing for them, giving them every opportunity, when what we were really doing was starving them of our presence.
That weekend, we’d gone to my parents’ house. A forced family fun weekend, one of many. It was supposed to be a reset, a chance to reconnect. Instead, it felt like an extended exercise in polite avoidance. My partner and I barely spoke. The kids stayed glued to their screens, occasionally glancing up with that glazed look that always made my stomach clench. Every forced laugh, every strained conversation, every quiet, awkward meal just hammered home how far apart we’d drifted. I kept thinking, we need to slow down. We need to listen to each other again.
A woman smiling outdoors | Source: Unplash / Edward Cisneros
The drive home was meant to be our turning point. Five hours of open road, a captive audience. No distractions, no chores looming. Just us, the four of us, finally together. I pictured myself turning off the radio, making eye contact, asking real questions. I imagined the kids putting down their tablets, maybe even talking about their day, their dreams. I envisioned my partner and I holding hands, truly seeing each other for the first time in months. I had it all planned in my head. This is it. This is where we start over.
The silence in the car was deafening. My oldest, nine, was staring out the window, a tiny frown etched between their brows. The younger one, seven, was already asleep, head lolled against the window. My partner, in the passenger seat, hadn’t said a word since we left the driveway. Their eyes were fixed on the passing scenery, but I knew they weren’t really seeing it. Their jaw was tight. Their hands were clasped in their lap, knuckles white. The atmosphere was so thick, I could barely breathe.
I took a deep breath, clutching the steering wheel. This was my chance. My voice felt rusty, like I hadn’t used it for anything other than commands in weeks. “Hey,” I started, my voice a little too loud in the quiet. “Rough weekend, huh?”
My partner flinched, as if startled by my voice. They turned to me, and for a split second, their eyes met mine. They were full of a sadness so profound, it stole my breath. What have I missed? I thought, a sudden, cold dread washing over me. What have I been too busy to see?
A man in a hoodie | Source: Unsplash
They didn’t answer my question about the weekend. Instead, they looked down at their hands, then back up at the road ahead, as if searching for something. Their voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “I need to tell you something.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Okay. This is it. The confession. The argument. The hard truth that will make us finally talk. I braced myself. “Go on,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
They took another deep, shaky breath. “I haven’t been feeling well for a while. Not just tired, or stressed. Something more.” Their voice cracked. “I went to the doctor last week. Alone.”
A chill ran down my spine. “Alone? Why alone? What is it? You should have told me!” My mind raced, picturing all the late nights, the unexplained headaches, the distant stares. God, I’m such an idiot. I should have paid more attention.
They shook their head slowly. “No, I shouldn’t have told you. You wouldn’t have noticed anyway.” Tears welled in their eyes, finally spilling over and tracing paths down their pale cheeks. They still wouldn’t look at me. Their gaze was fixed, unblinking, on the endless highway stretching before us.
Then, they spoke the words that shattered everything. The words that truly forced us to slow down, to listen, to feel a pain so profound, it’s still ringing in my ears. “It’s not just me. I went to the doctor again today, after we dropped the kids off with your parents for a few hours yesterday. It’s too late for me now, but… the tests show the same thing for the youngest. They have it too. And it’s… terminal.”
My blood ran cold. My head spun. I could hear nothing but the roar of the engine, the sudden, terrible, silent scream that erupted inside me. WE WERE SO BUSY LIVING, WE FORGOT TO LIVE.
