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For the first two years of our marriage, there was a small, consistent rhythm I never thought to question. On the first Saturday of every month, my husband would leave the house mid-morning and return a few hours later with the quiet normalcy of routine intact. His explanations were always reasonable—errands to run, a family obligation, something that didn’t warrant detail. He came home with groceries, pastries, or something mundane that signaled nothing was out of place. I believed him without effort. Trust, when it exists, is almost invisible. It doesn’t interrogate. It doesn’t demand receipts. It simply assumes the best and moves on.
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