It broke.
Everything.
The day didn’t just unfold—it cracked.
With volume. With force.
With shouting that burned through the walls.
Not about one thing—about everything.
Weeks of pressure, collisions, misfires.
All of it crashing in one long, sharp wave.
We fought like we were drowning.
Too tired to be graceful.
Too overwhelmed to hold back.
The children cried.
Not because they knew why.
But because they knew how it felt.
The sound of something sacred unraveling.
And then—
we slept.
Three hours.
All of us.
Folded into fatigue.
Not because we forgave.
But because our bodies surrendered before our minds could.
When we woke, the world was quieter.
Still uncertain.
Still cracked.
But less brittle.
That evening,
we went out—together.
To one of our favorite restaurants.
No plan.
Just instinct.
The warmth of red wine.
Perfectly cooked meat.
The kids drawing quietly with colored pencils,
eyes bright, well-rested, inventing worlds on paper.
We didn’t speak of the fight.
We didn’t need to.
The tenderness in the silence said enough.
We were not fixed.
But we were still here.
Still choosing.
Not every rupture ends in ruin.
Some end in return.
Not to how it was—
but to something deeper.
Tonight, we were four people at a table.
Tired, warm, together.
And somehow,
that was enough.