But this time, I wasn’t hearing the usual silence of the house. I heard something else — something faint, something soft, but unmistakable.
Footsteps.
I lay perfectly still, listening. The sound was coming from the living room. Diane had left the light on in the kitchen, and I could see the glow from the crack under my door. The house was quiet otherwise. I strained to hear.
The footsteps stopped, and then I heard it. A voice.
A whisper.
“I’m sorry.”
It was Diane’s voice, muffled, but clear enough for me to recognize. I had never heard her whisper like that before. It wasn’t the casual whisper of someone trying not to wake up a child. It was an apology. But not just any apology — it was an apology that carried weight, regret, and guilt.
I held my breath, waiting, trying to make sense of what was happening.
Then, I heard another voice — a man’s voice. It was low, rough, but full of something else — something I hadn’t expected.
“It’s not enough,” the man said. “You can’t keep running back to him every time things get hard.”
