When I finally walked through the front door that evening, the kids came running to hug me, and Max jumped up at my legs. For a moment, that familiar chaos grounded me. But then Jenna looked up from the stove, and I saw the exhaustion in her eyes — the same exhaustion I’d ignored for months.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, noticing my face.

I told her. Every word felt like a stone in my throat.

She went quiet. The spoon in her hand paused mid-stir. “You’re joking,” she said finally.

“I wish I were,” I replied. “They’re downsizing. I’ll get a few weeks’ pay, but after that…”

She pressed her lips together, her eyes darting toward the kids. “We’ll talk later,” she said softly.

That night, after the kids were asleep, we sat at the kitchen table in silence for a long time. I told her I’d already started applying for new jobs. I told her we’d be okay, that we’d figure it out.

She didn’t respond right away. Finally, she said, “I don’t know if I can go through this again.”

“Again?” I asked.