Her fork froze halfway to her mouth. She stared at her plate for a second, as if weighing her options.
“Small town,” she whispered. “Not far.”
“Which one?”
Graham cleared his throat. “She’s tired, honey.”
They were making pancakes.
I looked at him. He was watching her, not me, the way a parent watches a child crossing traffic.
“I just asked a question, Graham.”
“And she answered.”
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling. Twenty years of marriage, and I had never heard him use that tone with anyone but our daughter.
The next morning, I came down barefoot and stopped in the kitchen doorway.
They were making pancakes.
Three nights later, I heard voices from the kitchen at midnight.
Mia stood at the stove in one of my old shirts, flour dusting her cheek. Graham reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so gentle, so practiced, that something inside me snapped.
“Morning,” I managed.
Mia jumped. Graham’s hand fell away.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“Apparently not early enough.”
Three nights later, I heard voices from the kitchen at midnight. I crept to the top of the stairs and pressed my hand against the railing.
The next day, I tried again.
The pipes in the wall swallowed whole sentences. I caught only pieces.
