“Leave it,” I said. “It’s late. Come inside. I’ll make hot chocolate.”
“But the list—”
“Whatever list there is, I’ll deal with it.”
She hesitated a long time before she set the shirt down.
In the kitchen, I turned on the lights and saw the refrigerator. Taped to the door was a sheet of paper in Patricia’s handwriting. Mop all floors daily. Windows Wednesday. Iron your father’s shirts. Clean Bianca’s room. Do NOT use the machine for your things. At the bottom, underlined twice: If the house isn’t perfect when we get back, there will be consequences.
I folded the paper and put it in my pocket.
Sofia drank her chocolate in small, careful sips, like someone who wasn’t sure she was allowed to have it. When I asked if she’d eaten dinner, she said she’d had some crackers.
I didn’t call my wife that night. I sat in the dark living room after Sofia went to bed and made myself think instead of react.
