In the Dead of Winter, When Chicago’s Wind Cut Like Glass and the Snow Felt Personal, I Opened the Door to a Storm That Wasn’t Just Outside the House, but Inside My Marriage, and by the Time the Streetlamp Across the Street Stopped Buzzing, Nothing Between Us Was Going to Survive the Night

The storm outside roared louder, as if disagreeing.

We stood facing each other in the living room while snow gathered against the windows in thick, blinding waves. The fireplace crackled, but it didn’t warm anything between us. I had rehearsed this confrontation in my head a hundred times, but now that it was here, it felt less like a script and more like a collapse.

“I followed you,” I said quietly.

Mark’s jaw tightened. “You followed me?”

“Yes.”