In the morning, Seira served Max again before he left for work.
She still made sure his clothes were neat, his stomach was full, his bag had everything he might need for the day.
It wasn't love anymore, not really... it was a habit.
Something she did to keep the wheels turning, to hold the routine together, like if she just kept moving, maybe everything else would stay in place too.
But the way she moved now didn't carry the same warmth it used to.
She knew it herself.
The love wasn't there anymore.
What was left was mostly regret, but she couldn't say it out loud... not to him, not to the kids.
She didn't want the children to grow up carrying the kind of sadness that came from knowing their parents had stopped loving each other.
That sort of truth just… cuts too deep.
Way too much for kids to deal with.
So, she bit her tongue.
Faked a smile when she needed to.
Laughed at the right times, even if it felt fake as hell.
She played the part.
Not for herself, that ship had sailed ages ago, but for them.
Because she knew how silence could protect, how a lie told gently could sometimes feel kinder than the truth and maybe, just maybe, they'd grow up a little softer because of it.
But Seira wasn't clueless.
She'd seen the messages.
The way Max talked to his co-worker who was probably prettier than her, probably more put-together, more free to chase whatever she wanted in life.
Unlike Seira who felt like an old lady or nobody walking through a house that never really felt like home.
Alona was right.
She could feel it... like something inside her was slowly dimming, worn down by a man who only loved her in pieces.
Some days he made an effort, like he remembered how.
Most days, he didn't bother and the hardest part wasn't even the lack of love.
It was knowing she couldn't just walk away.
Not now.
Not with the kids here, watching, needing her to hold everything together... because if she didn't, who would?
That night Max came home with a smile, like something good had happened.
Seira didn't ask.
She didn't need to.
She already had a feeling she knew why.
In the living room, the kids were lost in their own little worlds.
Dylan, twelve, was trying to teach Matthew how to play chess, his voice calm and patient even as the eight-year-old kept drifting off... eyes wandering, fingers fidgeting, attention caught by anything but the piece on the board.
Thia, their oldest at seventeen, barely looked up from her phone, thumbs moving fast as she laughed softly at something on the screen.
From the corner of her eye, Seira caught a glimpse of a character on her daughter's screen... a woman with silver hair, dressed in purple with little embroidered details, eyes shining like amethysts.
She let out a quiet sigh, watching the kids from where she stood.
It was a strange feeling, being surrounded by so much life and still feeling stuck in place.
Maybe... just maybe... if she could turn back time, she'd live like they do now.
A little freer.
A little messier.
Unbothered by the weight of all the things she never found the words to say.
"Seira, I need to go. I have to meet some colleagues to finish our project," he said, smiling while changing out of his work clothes into something more formal.
She only nodded.
But in her head, the noise was already building.
One scenario led to another, like dominoes falling in slow motion.
If she said something, he'd probably shift into defense mode, say she was being paranoid again, that she always jumped to conclusions.
He'd mention the kids, like he always did, turning the guilt back on her... saying things like "They're watching, Seira. What kind of example are we setting?" And just like that, she'd be the problem again.
If she asked who exactly he was meeting, he'd probably laugh it off and say, "Just a project thing, colleagues," like always and if she tried to follow him? That would only drain her even more.
She already knew the answer.
So what was the point in proving something she already felt deep in her gut?
At exactly 9:00 p.m., Thia said she felt dizzy, then went off to find her mom.
Moments later, Seira saw her daughter collapse, hands pressed weakly to her chest.
"What happened?" she cried, panic rising as she dropped to her knees and grabbed Thia by the shoulders.
She shook her gently, calling her name again and again... but there was no response. Nothing.
Just a terrifying silence that made Seira feel like even her own voice had disappeared.
With trembling fingers, she dialed her husband's number... but it went straight to voicemail.
Out of reach.
She stared at the screen, waited, then tried again.
Still nothing.
No ring, no voicemail.
Just that cold message repeating that the number couldn't be reached.
He turned off his phone... again.
Like he didn't want to be found.
Like whatever he was doing was more important than his own family and somehow, that hurt more than she expected.
Because in this moment, when everything felt like it was falling apart, the one person who should've picked it up… didn't even bother to be available.
Seira didn't know what else to do.
She didn't even think.
She just lifted Thia into her arms, forgetting how heavy her daughter had grown, fueled only by the adrenaline kicking in from fear and panic.
Outside, a neighbor saw her struggling and ran to help.
They called for an ambulance and promised to watch over her two sons while she went with Thia.
Seira didn't even have time to say thank you... just a breathless nod before the ambulance doors shut behind her.
Inside, she sat beside the stretcher, clutching her daughter's hand.
Her chest is tight, eyes full, throat dry. She was crying but didn't feel the tears.
Panicking, praying, thinking of every worst-case scenario.