Blake

It started with silence. Not the comfortable kind that fills long marriages, but the cold, humming kind—like standing in an empty room after someone’s slammed the door behind them. Blake and I had grown distant. Seven years of marriage had dulled into monotony: polite dinners, perfunctory affection. and conversations that died mid-sentence. When she suggested therapy, I agreed, half out of hope, half out of guilt. Dr. Evan Marlowe’s office was serene—clean lines, soft earth tones, that carefully curated stillness therapists use to make you talk more. Blake seemed lighter there. She laughed a little. She spoke with ease I hadn’t seen in months, especially when Evan turned those empathetic eyes her way. I chalked it up to progress. But week by week, I noticed the sessions turning into a duet. Evan would nod, validate, lean forward when Blake spoke. When I voiced frustration, he'd offer a measured frown, redirect the topic. I felt like a third wheel in my own marriage—on the couch, beside my wife, but outside their bubble. Then came the missed calls. The “quick errands” that took hours. The vague explanations. One night, Blake came home late, smelling like his cologne—clean, sharp, unfamiliar. I confronted her. She didn’t deny it. Not the scent, not the affair, not the fact that the therapy was never for us. It was for her—to make her feel better while she detached. Evan just helped her do it. She said it so calmly, like confessing a diet slip. And I realized then: I had paid someone to help my wife fall out of love with me.