She's finished putting Joanna to bed, and now she comes to the unavoidable things. She's standing on the threshold of a failing marriage. Just entering their bedroom is a struggle.
"Leonard," she says.
His face is distorted by lamplight, but she knows he's frowning and he won't meet her eyes. He rolls over petulantly as she slips in between the sheets and awkwardly molds herself to the contour of his back. It's always been like this; she's always the one putting herself on the line.
"Leonard," she tries again. "We need to talk."
His silence speaks volumes about his stubbornness. She knows he's not asleep because he's shifting almost imperceptibly - to anyone other than herself - trying to work a knot out of his back. She begins to rub his back in soothing circles. She loves him so much; and even if at this point she can get no other form of interaction with him, she'll still take this.
She wonders how it got to this point. Leonard had never been this way before Joanna was born, or even before they were married. No, she takes it back; he had always been moody, only never with such violent swings between hot and cold. She's spent enough of her life blaming herself for this, now she knows that only he can change himself.
Leonard won't say anything; he's too stubborn to talk now that he's been silent for so long. He supposes it's his pride. In all honesty he'd like nothing more than to fix all this, he loves her after all; but dammit he's a doctor, not a marriage therapist, and he just doesn't have the time.
She feels him stop shifting underneath her hands, the tiniest of grunts telegraphing his thanks. She eases her fingertips off of his back as he shrugs. She smiles vaguely, knowing the knot will flare up again by the end of the day tomorrow.
As a doctor's wife, there are just some things you learn to diagnose.
And she knows the prognosis is no good.