“What do you need from me?”
The answer is waiting in you, already fully formed.
“I need you to stay,” you say. “I need you to listen. And I need him to understand this doesn’t get folded into another apology and another week.”
Michael nods once.
“Done.”
You finish breakfast together in a silence that isn’t awkward.
Michael pours coffee. You slide biscuits into the oven. The ordinary rhythm of it is almost surreal, like your house is trying to pretend it is still a place where mornings begin with lists and school forms and weather forecasts instead of bruises and decisions. Then Michael notices the old framed photo of you and Daniel at the county fair on the windowsill and turns it facedown without a word.
At 7:24, Daniel comes downstairs.
You hear him before you see him. The heavy steps. The throat clearing. The kitchen doorway catches him in soft morning light, and for one second he is still wearing the smug half-relaxed look of a man who assumes yesterday has already been reduced to “a bad moment.” Then he sees Michael at the table, sees the extra coffee mug, sees the untouched place setting across from yours, and the smile slides off his face so fast it is almost satisfying.
