“It stopped being a marriage when I had to monitor your moods like weather,” you say.
He turns on you immediately.
“That is such garbage. You have no idea what pressure I’m under. Bills, work, that stupid furnace, your mother calling every other day, you crying every time there’s conflict like I’m some monster because I lose my temper once in a while.”
Michael moves before you do.
Not across the room, not with fists, just enough to stand between Daniel and the table. Enough to make the geometry of the kitchen change. Enough for Daniel to remember he is no longer speaking to you in private with the advantage of fear.
“Back up,” Michael says.
And Daniel does.
The heater hums. The biscuits cool. Orange light from the stove clock reads 7:32. It occurs to you then, almost absurdly, that if this were any other school morning you would already be checking backpacks, packing lunches, braiding Emily’s hair. The thought hits like a blow because it reminds you how long you have tried to tuck violence neatly around domestic routine, to keep the machine of family life running while pretending some of its gears were not grinding flesh.
