“It was good.” I responded to the typical, ‘how was your day?’ question. He smiled and continued eating. It hurt. Holding in how I really felt, hurt; especially to someone who was supposed to care. Conversation stopped there. He picked up his cell phone and busied himself with something clearly more entertaining. I tried to hold back my tears but I couldn’t. A tear that had been begging to come out for weeks, quickly thundered down the side of my cheek, and I didn’t even try to stop it. A part of me wanted him to see it. A part of me wanted him to ask me what was wrong. I desired for that conversation that would delve into my reality, that I wasn’t happy, my reality that I was hurting. I just wanted his attention, his ear, his support, him. But, he didn’t even notice. I heard him chuckle, and for some reason that hurt even more. I was non-existent to him. I got up and ran towards the bathroom. In my mind, he ran right behind me, grabbed me and turned me around, his face in shock and pain as he saw tears streaming down my face. He pulled me in close, to that safe place in his chest as he rubbed the back of my neck. The point that connected to the base of my hair line, and somehow, that alone made things a little better. “What on earth is going on?” He’d say. I started to tell him as more tears escaped, and with each tear, he wiped them away. He listened, intently. With care, and concern. And somehow, just that was enough.