Chapter 1: The Side of the Bed He Never Wanted
My husband and I have slept on the same sides of the bed for seventeen years.
I'm on the left, closest to the door.
David is on the right, beside the window.
It's one of those tiny marriage habits you stop thinking about.
My nightstand, charger, and water were on my side.
His glasses and phone were on his.
So last Monday, when David suddenly said, "I think we should switch sides," I laughed.
"Why?"
"I haven't been sleeping well.
Maybe changing things up will help."
That immediately sounded strange.
David hates changing things up.
He buys the same toothpaste, parks in the same spot at the grocery store, and has used the same coffee mug for years.
But he kept insisting.
So we switched.
I hated it immediately.
Everything felt wrong.
David, meanwhile, fell asleep within minutes.
The next morning, he asked, "Sleep okay?"
"Not really."
"Give it a couple of nights."
That sentence stayed with me.
Why did he care so much?
The second night, I suggested switching back.
"No," he said.
"I slept better."
That night, I noticed something else.
Every time I moved, David seemed to wake up.
Around midnight, I got up to use the bathroom.
When I returned, he was sitting halfway up in bed.
"What?"
"Nothing.
I thought you were going downstairs."
"Why?"
He shrugged.
That was when the whole thing stopped feeling silly.
It felt like he was waiting for me to do something.
The next afternoon, while David was at work, I checked around my old side of the bed.
The nightstand.
Underneath it.
The drawer.
Nothing.
I felt ridiculous.
Then came the third night.
I woke sometime after three and realized David wasn't in bed.
The bathroom was empty.
Then I heard movement downstairs.
A cabinet opening.
The back door.
A few minutes later, David came upstairs and froze when he saw me awake.
"Where were you?"
"Downstairs."
"You went outside."
"Just for a minute."
He climbed into bed without explaining.
I barely slept.
The next evening, I finally confronted him.
"Enough.
Why did you make us switch sides?"
"I already told you."
"No.
You gave me an excuse."
He sighed.
"You've slept on the same side for seventeen years.
Now you suddenly need mine.
You keep checking whether I'm asleep.
You watch me every time I get out of bed.
And last night, you went outside at three in the morning."
David went completely quiet.
"Is there something you're not telling me?"
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he said:
"Yes."
My stomach dropped.
"What?"
He stood up.
"Just stay here."
"David—"
"Two seconds."
He walked out of the living room.
I heard him move toward the back of the house.
A door opened.
Then another.
For maybe thirty seconds, I just stood there staring at the hallway, imagining every ridiculous possibility my brain could produce.
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Then David came back.
And when I saw what he was carrying in his hands, I finally understood why he had switched sides of the bed.
