“Listen,” Daniel says, shifting gears. “It got out of hand. She knows how to push. We were both upset.”
“No,” you say. “You were angry. I was late on a bill. And you hit me.”
The biscuits are done.
The timer goes off with cheerful little beeps, absurdly bright in the middle of this conversation. You turn off the oven, take the tray out, and set it on the stove. None of you moves toward the food. Steam lifts into the air, buttery and warm, while the kitchen itself grows colder by the second.
Daniel looks between you and Michael.
“What do you want?” he asks at last.
There it is. Not Are you okay? Not I’m sorry. What do you want. As if everything in this house, even violence, is just another negotiation he might still win if he finds the right combination of tone and exhaustion. You feel something inside you settle with final, terrible clarity.
