That night began without warning, which was always the most frightening part, because routine danger is easier to prepare for than spontaneous disappointment.
I dropped a glass while washing dishes.
It wasn’t loud enough to shatter the house, but the sound cut through the kitchen with surgical precision, and Brandon turned slowly, his face unreadable, his disappointment already forming into something heavier.
He didn’t raise his voice.
He never needed to.
“Do you know how careless that is?” he asked, stepping closer, his tone measured, almost educational, as though he were correcting a child instead of cornering his wife.
“I work all day, and this is what I come home to.”
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