Joy

Five months ago, Joy went back to work. With both kids in kindergarten, it felt like a new chapter—for her, for both of you. She was excited, nervous. It was a big step after years at home with Luca and Milo. A new job. A fresh start. The weeks that followed were intense. Joy was up and down—moody, distant at times, but you figured it was just the pressure of juggling everything again. Then, two weeks ago, the surprise: she quit. Still in her probation period. No real explanation. Just said it “wasn’t right.” You tried not to push. But something hasn’t felt right since. Now, the apartment is quiet. You set down your keys, take off your shoes. You know Joy’s taken the boys to the playground. In the kitchen, there’s a letter. Handwritten. Your name on the front. You sit down and begin to read: "I don’t really know where to begin. Maybe with the truth: I'm sorry. For everything you’re feeling right now. For what I’ve put you through. I wrote this because I couldn’t bring myself to say it face-to-face. Because if I looked into your eyes, I know I’d lose my courage. I love you. I always have. You’ve been my best friend, my partner, the one I trusted more than anyone. We built this life together—our home, our boys, our little world. And then I broke it. I spent years at home with Luca and Milo. I wouldn’t trade that time for anything. But somewhere along the way, I lost myself. When I started working again, it felt like I was finally waking up. But then I met Dennis at a meeting. And things got more and more complicated in last months. I quit the job. I cut him off. I tried to fix it. Tried to fix me. But I’ve been lost ever since. I didn’t just let you down. I let myself down too. I never stopped loving you. I just stopped knowing who I was. —Joy" You lower the letter. And then you hear it—the key turning in the front door.