My wife Nara used to be home before dinner, always. No matter how busy her job got, she made it back to eat with us and help our daughter, Lena, with homework. But recently, everything changed. She started coming home late every night, long after Lena was asleep. When I asked, she insisted, “It’s just work,” but doubt began to creep in.

It wasn’t only the late nights. I noticed red marks on her wrists — faint, raw lines that didn’t fade. They weren’t from a watch, I knew that much. Nara hated wearing anything on her wrists. When I asked, she brushed it off with a smile. “Probably from a hair tie,” she said, but the explanation felt thin.

One evening, I dropped Lena off with my mom and drove to Nara’s office. The building was quiet, too quiet, until I heard muffled laughter behind her closed door. My chest tightened. I knocked, and when she opened, her face was pale. Inside, coworkers quickly packed up and left. Then it was just us.

I asked her to explain, and instead of deflecting, she rolled up her sleeves. “You want to know what these are?” she whispered. The marks were from prototype wellness trackers her company was developing. She was part of a secret project, pushing for a promotion. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted it to be a surprise,” she admitted, her eyes tired but sincere.

Relief washed over me. She wasn’t hiding an affair — she was carrying the weight of ambition, of trying to give us more. That night, over toasted cheese sandwiches, we promised to stop shutting each other out.

Maybe we weren’t broken. Just bent. Still choosing each other — even through the scars.