When Graham brought a frightened young woman into their quiet home, Claire thought their already fragile marriage had reached its breaking point, but the truth waiting upstairs was something she never could have imagined.
Twenty years of marriage had gone by in the blink of an eye. Our quiet suburban street, our blue front door, the kitchen where I still kept the chipped mug that had belonged to our daughter.
Our daughter, Lily, had been gone for three years now. I still set a plate for her by mistake sometimes.
Graham and I didn’t talk about her anymore. We didn’t talk about much, really, and I had convinced myself that we were just trying to get through the grief.
He had been coming home late for nearly two months.
“You’re quiet tonight,” I said one evening, passing him the salt.
“Long day at the office,” he answered.
“You’ve had a lot of those lately.”
“Mm.”
