She was being overly sensitive.
She would realize I was right once she calmed down.
At noon, I checked my phone.
There were no text messages from her.
Usually, she sent me photos of Leo, or a quick note asking me to buy milk on the way home.
Today, my screen was completely blank.
I started to type a message, asking if she needed anything from the store.
I erased it, deciding it was better to give her some space.
When I returned home at seven, the house smelled of roasted chicken.
The kitchen was spotless, the counters wiped clean.
My plate was sitting on the dining table, covered with plastic wrap.
A small note next to it read: “In the fridge. Just heat it up.”
The handwriting was her usual neat script, but the note was unsigned.
I heard the low murmur of the television from the living room.
Leo was watching a cartoon, and Anna was sitting beside him on the sofa, folding laundry.
She was smoothing out one of my blue button-down shirts.
Her hands patted the cotton flat, folding the sleeves with military precision.
