Chapter 4: Unraveling

I work in human resources. When it comes to reading people and relationships, I’m more practiced than most.

After years of mediating office squabbles and reading between the lines of a hundred exit interviews, you learn to trust your gut. Small tells—where people look, how they move, who they serve soup to.

So I could tell at a glance: Ethan’s unusual behavior today was for that bowl of soup—for Lillian.

My heart twisted. Not because I was jealous (or maybe I was), but because I’d seen enough subtle flirtations at company parties to know how these things start.

Why would Ethan suddenly care so much about Lillian?

I couldn’t help but recall two months ago.

Derek’s father passed away. Ethan, as an old friend, went to pay his respects and visited his in-laws too. He was gone for five days, returning with Derek and his wife.

I’d trusted him completely—hadn’t even called to check in. In our house, we prided ourselves on not being the jealous type, as if that made us immune.

Could something have happened during that time?

My professional caution kept me from jumping to conclusions. After all, objectively, Ethan still treated me well.

He hadn’t changed in any obvious ways. He remembered my favorite brand of decaf, still sent me little texts during the day: "Don’t forget your prenatal vitamins." Maybe I was reading too much into it—paranoia is easy when you’re pregnant and hormonal.

We met by the campus lake in college. He was always the first to arrive for morning reading.

He’d sit there, hunched over a battered copy of The New Yorker, sipping gas station coffee. I’d show up a few minutes later, pretending not to care that he’d saved me a seat.

I was always second.

We were so alike—both from small towns, poor families. For three generations, our families had poured everything into making us their pride.

Our parents would phone every Sunday, peppering us with questions about scholarships, research, whether we’d made the dean’s list again. The unspoken rule was: don’t fail.

For years, all the pressure and all the glory focused on us, and we just kept running, never daring to slack off.

I felt I’d finally found a companion. As if, trudging alone at the bottom of a sunless sea, I’d discovered I wasn’t alone after all.

With him, even failure felt survivable. We built our own little world, a fortress of mutual understanding against the expectations of the world outside.

I thought, to him, I meant the same…

I said nothing about what happened at the table that day.

That night, he held me, his desire barely restrained.

He pressed a hand to my stomach, whispering, "Are you sure it’s okay?"

"Rachel, not yet?"

"Mm, not yet three months. Let’s wait a bit."

He panted heavily a few times, got out of bed, and said helplessly, "I’ll go take a cold shower."

I heard the pipes rattle, the sound of water pounding tile. I lay staring at the ceiling, the quiet hum of the fridge in the next room the only company.

I was half-asleep when he woke me.

He was frowning.

"Derek is drunk and smashing things at home. I need to go check."

"Who called you?" I asked.

"…His wife. On the phone, both she and the kid were crying. It sounded serious."

I checked my phone. It was past eleven.

I pictured Derek’s house—vinyl siding, peeling paint, the kind of place you only visit out of obligation. I didn’t want Ethan driving across town at midnight for someone else’s drama.

"It’s too late—don’t go. If it’s that bad, she can call the cops. Besides, this is their family’s business; you’re not even related—"

"Rachel."

Ethan suddenly cut me off, his voice sharp.

I was stunned.

He looked impatient, with a trace of unfamiliar sarcasm in his eyes.

"When did you become so selfish? Now that you’re doing well, you just watch your own kind suffer? You know what Lillian is like—if she had any other choice, she wouldn’t ask me for help. Rachel, don’t you feel ashamed saying something so cold to a friend?"

I stared at him, shocked—as if I didn’t know him at all.

His words stung. Ethan was usually the calm one—level-headed, diplomatic, the guy who’d talk down an angry neighbor over a barking dog. But tonight, something brittle had crept into his voice.

I haven’t argued with anyone in a long time—not with colleagues, not with family, not even with Ethan. I realized long ago that arguing doesn’t solve problems; it just turns conversations into emotional brawls once reason is lost. Even if you argue, it’s a means, not an end. Anger only hurts yourself.

I remembered what my therapist once said: "Sometimes silence is an answer, too."

So I closed my eyes and calmly asked:

"The life I have now, I fought for step by step. Why should I feel ashamed because of someone else’s misfortune?"

My voice was soft, almost apologetic. But inside, resentment simmered. How many times had I sacrificed, bit my tongue, played peacemaker for someone else’s problems?

Ethan stood at the bedside, looking at me coldly.

"I’m definitely going tonight."

He grabbed his keys and was out the door before I could say another word. I listened to the sound of the garage door rumbling open, then closed my eyes, willing myself not to cry.

I don’t know when Ethan came home that night. When I left for work, his shoes were by the door, the small bedroom door tightly shut.

I tiptoed around the house, careful not to wake him. I made my own coffee, grabbed a granola bar, and headed out into the bright Idaho morning, determined to shake it off before my first meeting.

That day, I had an important HR assessment meeting. I couldn’t let him affect my mood.

I wore my best blazer, dabbed on extra concealer, and forced myself to smile for the new hires. No one noticed anything was wrong.