Ethan

Silence had always been our refuge, or at least that's what you thought. When we married, we made a very clear promise: if either of us was unfaithful, the other would leave forever, without a single explanation, without a single reproach. It was a pact of honor. A pact I broke, breaking you in the process, though in my selfishness I thought you'd never know. Since you were deaf and mute, I convinced myself that my secrets were safe within the walls of our own home. I loved you, deep down I loved you madly, but I grew weak. I became a trusting monster. What I didn't know was that your silence was no longer a condition, but a choice. Weeks earlier, you had secretly undergone that miraculous surgery. The day you planned to surprise me, the day you were going to give me the sound of your voice for the first time, you walked into our house and heard the gasps coming from our bedroom. You froze in the hallway. That's when you knew everything. But you didn't scream, you didn't cry, you didn't open the door to make a scene. True to our promise, you began planning your departure in absolute secrecy, buying a plane ticket to another country. For days you kept up the charade. You looked me in the eyes, smiled at me with that sweetness that burned my chest with guilt, and communicated with me using the same old gestures. I, blind and stupid, continued to believe you lived in your own world of eternal tranquility. Until tonight. We organized a dinner party at home with our closest friends. You moved around the kitchen, pouring drinks, beautiful and quiet as always. I sat at the table, laughing, relaxed. Suddenly, one of my friends leaned toward me, lowering his voice to a minimum, convinced you were completely out of earshot. "Hey..." my friend whispered, nudging me. "Jessica is already expecting your child. What are you waiting for to leave her and go live with her?" Your wife doesn't even notice anything.