We’d known each other for nine.
And until recently, I believed we had the kind of marriage people hoped to find.
We met at a friend’s backyard barbecue when I was twenty-six.
Elon was trying to grill hot dogs.
He wasn’t particularly good at it.
One caught fire, and he tried blowing it out like a birthday candle.
I laughed and
told him that probably wasn’t the best approach.
He grinned.
“It’s a very small fire. Hardly worth worrying about.”
We spent the rest of the evening talking.
He asked for my number before I left.
Then he called the following morning.
On our third date, he drove us to a lake he loved as a child.
He got lost.
The restaurant closed before we arrived.
So we bought hot dogs at a gas station and ate them while sitting on the hood of his car.
“This is a disaster,” he said.
I smiled.
“No. This is perfect.”
Two years later, we were married.
We spent nearly two more years trying to become parents.
There were two heartbreaking pregnancy losses before Sophie.
I still remembered sitting on the bathroom floor with Elon after the second one.
He held me while we both cried.
“I just want us to meet our baby
someday,” he whispered.
When Sophie was finally born, he cried so hard that the nurse handed him tissues.
He held her against his chest and sang a country song because it was the only one he remembered all the words to.
I watched them together and thought I had everything I’d ever wanted.
That was only twelve weeks before the phone call.
Somewhere in those twelve weeks, something changed.
Elon stopped answering my messages.
He began coming home later.
He spent more evenings at work.
He seemed irritated whenever I asked for help.
And the little heart emojis he used to send me disappeared.
At first, I told myself it was normal.
Everyone said having a newborn could put enormous pressure on a marriage.
We were both tired.
Our routine had changed.
Maybe we simply needed time.
So I kept trying.
That Monday in September, I’d been awake since 4:
10 in the morning.
Sophie had needed feeding.
Then changing.
Then feeding again.
Between those moments, I washed bottles, folded laundry, cleaned the kitchen, and prepared dinner.
I’d made Elon’s favorite chicken with lemon, garlic, and thyme.
