I’ve been thinking about Michael a lot lately, ever since his wife left him. They were married what, twelve years? And now it’s just… over. He calls me, sounds so lost. And I listen, I always listen. Because that’s what mothers do. But a part of me, a terrible, dark part, just keeps wondering if this is all my fault. My husband and I, we fought. Not all the time, not screaming and throwing things, but it was there. A constant hum beneath the surface. Snapped words in the kitchen, stony silences at dinner. We’d go days barely speaking, and then one of us would just… give in. Usually me. To keep the peace. To keep the family together. For the kids. Michael saw it all. He must have. He was a quiet child, always watching. Absorbing everything. I thought I was protecting him by not blowing things up, by making sure he always had a home, a routine. But what if I was just showing him how to live in a half-life? How to accept less than what you deserve? I remember one time, Michael must have been about ten, he asked me why Dad always looked so mad. And I told him, “Oh, honey, your father just has a lot on his mind.” What a load of crap. He was just a difficult man. And I made excuses for him, for years. To Michael. To myself. I minimized everything, pretended it wasn't as bad as it was. Maybe I was just too tired to fight anymore. Raising two kids, working part-time, keeping the house together… there wasn’t much left for me. And certainly not enough to start a war with my own husband. So I just… existed. And now look. Michael’s wife, she just picked up and left. Said she couldn’t do it anymore. And I don’t blame her. I don’t. Because I see what he became. He’s so much like his father sometimes it makes my stomach clench. That quiet resentment. The way he can shut down, just completely retreat into himself when things get tough. He’ll tell me, “She just gave up, Mom.” And I want to shake him, tell him what he doesn’t see. Tell him it wasn't her giving up, it was *him* giving up on making things work. But I can’t. Because if I do, then I have to admit that he learned it from me. From us. I spent my whole life being the steady one. The one who held it all together, no matter what. My parents, then my children, then my husband’s sick mother… always someone needing me to be strong, to be the caregiver, the one who didn’t crack. And I did it. I was so damn good at it. But now, seeing Michael so lost, so heartbroken… I wonder if I was strong in all the wrong ways. If my quiet endurance taught him nothing but how to let a good thing slip away, because he never saw anyone fight for their own happiness. And that’s a hell of a thing to carry.