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Ryan drove far longer than I expected. Past familiar streets, beyond places tied to our shared life. Nearly an hour later, he turned into the parking lot of a worn-down building with peeling paint and a flickering sign that read “Hope Recovery Center.”
I parked and watched as he sat in his car, unmoving, as if gathering courage. Finally, he stepped out and went inside.
Through an open window, I heard voices. A group. Someone was speaking about fear, about helplessness, about nearly losing everything that mattered.
I recognized Ryan’s voice before I saw him.
Inside, people sat in a circle. Ryan was there, his shoulders shaking as he spoke.
He talked about the delivery room. About watching doctors rush around me. About holding our newborn while fearing he might lose me. He spoke about nightmares that wouldn’t stop replaying those moments.
Every word cut through me
The Truth I Never Expected
Ryan admitted that every time he looked at Lily, all he could see was that terrifying moment when everything felt out of control. He spoke about fear, about being unable to protect either of us, about worrying that loving her too deeply would somehow make the loss unbearable if something went wrong again.
A counselor reassured him that what he was experiencing was a common trauma response. That fear after witnessing something so intense often shows up as emotional distance.
I crouched outside, tears streaming, realizing that while I had been questioning his love, he had been fighting his own quiet battle to heal.
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