'My in-laws expect a normal family dinner. They don't know what we have to tell them after.'

I keep telling myself I can get through one more family gathering pretending my marriage isn't over. Just one lunch. One set of forced smiles. One day where no one can see the truth sitting between us.

Because no one knows. Not his family. Not mine. Not even our kids. Two months ago, my husband and I sat at the kitchen table and quietly agreed that our marriage had run its course, and since then we've been living in this strange emotional holding pattern under the same roof, stepping around each other like flatmates who don't quite get along.

Not because we're trying to be dramatic or secretive, but because we want to hold the narrative in our own hands before it becomes a group discussion. His family is very involved.

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Mine will listen and ask what we need. His will cry, debate, analyse, problem-solve and accidentally make everything ten times harder. This is just who they are. After 15 years, I accept it.

To be fair, things between me and his family are the best they've ever been. That's the part that makes this whole situation feel so twisted. For years, his mum and I had this weird dance where everything felt personal even when it wasn't. She's strong-minded. I'm strong-minded. It was like two magnets trying to figure out if we were supposed to attract or repel.

His sister and I had our own bumps too, but now she genuinely feels like a sister to me. The kind you can vent to about school uniforms and ageing parents and who understands when you say you're tired without needing an explanation.

Through it all, he used to say things like, "Funny how I don't fight with your family." That used to make my blood boil, him taking credit for that. My family doesn't fight with anyone.

His family has small fires with half the extended relatives at any given moment. Of course, the dynamic was different.

It took therapy for me to see my part in it too. I took things personally. I bristled. I was defensive. Once I softened, they softened. Things got better.

Our marriage got easier too. On the surface, anyway. Kids. Work. Bills. Photos on the fridge. Life kept happening and we went along with it. We made a good team when the kids were small. We survived the toddler trenches, the daycare viruses, the sleepless years. Of course, we were tired, we felt misunderstood and resentful at times, but we kept moving.

Then, once the kids weren't tiny anymore and the fog of early parenting lifted, we could see each other more clearly. And it wasn't the view either of us hoped for. A few really, big fights, a million little ones, and the realisation that neither of us was truly happy in the way a person should be happy in their marriage.

There was no big betrayal. No huge blow-up. Just erosion. Quiet, steady erosion that wore us down until we were standing there looking at each other like, oh. This is it. We've run out of road.

The day we decided to separate, it was peaceful. Almost gentle. Two adults acknowledging something sad but inevitable. We agreed we'd do it kindly, carefully, thoughtfully. The kids would come first.

But amicable doesn't mean easy. It doesn't even mean pleasant.

Since making the decision, everything he does grates on me more than ever. The way he sighs. The way he clears his throat. The spoon left in the sink. The way he chews on the side of his mouth and speaks in a bro-voice when he's on the phone with his friends. I can feel my whole body tense when he walks into a room. And I can feel it from him too. That quiet, simmering irritation. We're trying so hard to be civil, but it feels like ripping off a Band-Aid millimetre by millimetre.

We're not really fighting. We're not screaming. It's almost worse. It's the silence. The distance. The knowledge that we are no longer a couple, while still pretending to be one for the children who run through the hallways completely unaware.

It's awkward AF, to be honest.

And now I have to take this fractured version of us into his family's home.

The problem is I've never been good at pretending. I'm not one of those women who can plaster on a smile while swallowing everything else. My face has always told the truth before my mouth could catch up. It's probably why the early years with his family were so rocky. I couldn't hide my discomfort. They couldn't hide theirs. And now here I am, preparing to walk into their house and act like everything is fine when it isn't. Not even close.

I lie awake at night running through possible slip-ups. What if I snap at him like I have been at home? What if he snaps at me? What if his mum notices the way we can barely look at each other for too long without our expressions tightening. What if his sister jokes about our next holiday and I freeze because we don't have joint plans anymore.

What if the kids pick up on the weird energy? What if someone hugs me and I crack right open.

The fear isn't only about lying. It's about leaking. The resentment. The grief. The exhaustion of living beside someone you used to love and now can barely tolerate, while also knowing they're feeling exactly the same about you.

I already know that I'll be internally raging if faking it comes easily to him.

And still, we'll go. Because the kids deserve one more family event that feels normal. Because we don't want his mum falling apart in the middle of carving the ham. Because once the truth is out, everyone will feel entitled to their own version of events, and we want a few more quiet weeks to hold onto ours.

I'll show up. I'll smile. I'll help in the kitchen and sit on the floor with the kids and laugh with his sister. It will feel both familiar and disorienting at the same time. They'll look at me like a daughter, a sister, a partner to their son.

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And I'll be thinking about the countdown in my head. The day we finally tell them. The day he moves out. The day this limbo ends.

This occasion will be the last one where we look like a family to everyone else. This will be the final time we play the part, and even though the decision was mutual, it sits in my chest like a stone. Not regret. Just the ache of knowing that something we built together is ending in slow motion while everyone else still thinks it's standing.

Feature image: Getty.