We slept in the same bed for ten years without ever touching each other. Everyone else thought our marriage was over, but the truth hurt more. Some wounds can be reopened with just a touch.

Mateo was nine years old.
A poorly treated fever.
An overcrowded hospital.
A decision I will never stop blaming myself for.

That night, Rosa got into bed without saying a word. I tried to hold her. She stiffened. She gently but firmly removed my hand.

“No,” she whispered. “Not now.”

That “no” hung in the air… and it never left.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into years.
We slept together, but each of us was alone.

Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, I would hear her crying softly. I pretended to be asleep—not because I didn’t care, but because I didn’t know how to reach for her without hurting her more.

I thought about leaving. Many times.
But something held me there. Guilt. Love. Fear.