It happened on Tuesdays, mostly, and sometimes on Thursdays. Owen would walk in after 9 p.m. with his tie loosened and apologies already rehearsed whenever I questioned him.
“Work’s been brutal,” he kept saying. “The Henley account is killing me.”
I wanted to believe him. I really did. Almost two decades of marriage teach you how to swallow small doubts so that the big love can keep breathing.
So I swallowed. And swallowed. And tried not to taste it.
It wasn’t every night, just often enough that I began to count.
***
On a Friday evening, Harper bounced into the living room with that bright hunger that nothing in the fridge could solve.
“Mom. Ice cream. Pleeaase! I’ve been studying for four hours, and my brain is officially dead.”
Owen was on the couch, already untying his shoes. He’d just arrived home from work.
“You two go,” he said quickly. “I’m exhausted.”
“You sure?” I asked. “Mabel always asks about you.”
“Tell her I said hi.”
My husband didn’t lift his head.
“Mabel always asks about you.”
***
Our favorite café, which sat two blocks from a shelter on the east side, smelled like cinnamon and coffee, the way it always did.
Mabel, the waitress who’d served us for years, was wiping down the counter when we walked in. The moment her eyes landed on the empty space beside Harper and me, her whole face changed. She went pale.
