Our conversation started awkwardly, with my spouse deflecting with practiced ease. “It’s nothing to worry about,” they assured me, their tone light, as if discussing the weather. But I pressed on, determined to understand.
“Why didn’t you tell me about these accounts?” I asked, pointing to the figures on my screen. The room was dimly lit, the only sound the quiet ticking of the clock on the wall.
“I just thought it would be easier this way,” they replied, meeting my gaze with a steady calm that both soothed and unsettled me. “It’s for our future, you know?”
There was a logic to their words, a rationale that made sense at a surface level. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something deeper was amiss. Trust, once given freely, now felt like a fragile thing, easily shattered.
We talked for hours, each point countered with an explanation, each concern met with a promise of transparency moving forward. Yet, as the conversation drew to a close, I knew this was far from over.
Afterward, I sat alone in the living room, the glow of the streetlights filtering through the curtains. My mind replayed the conversation, dissecting every word, searching for truth amidst the reassurances.
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