Every tear a calculation.
Daniel was home when we arrived, earlier than usual.
He was in the kitchen, and he had already started dinner.
Pasta.
He was stirring the sauce when we walked in.
“Thought I’d cook tonight,” he said.
He smiled at me.
Then he looked at Ava.
“How was your day?”
“Fine,” she said.
“I went for a drive.
Cleared my head.”
“Good.” He turned back to the stove.
“That’s good.”
I set my bag down and went upstairs to change.
In the bedroom, I checked my phone.
No message from Patricia yet.
I changed my clothes and went back down.
We ate dinner.
Daniel talked about the news, about a road closure near his office, about whether we should repaint the back fence before winter.
I answered everything.
Ava answered everything.
The pasta was good.
I told him so.
After dinner, he poured himself a whiskey and settled into his chair.
