Instead, she walked back into the kitchen with our son, her expression completely blank.
She sat down across from me, her eyes fixed on her plate.
She did not serve me.
I reached for the serving spoon myself.
The metal clinked against the ceramic bowl, a sharp, loud sound in the quiet kitchen.
“Here you go, buddy,” I said, scooping some pasta onto Leo’s plate.
“Thanks, Dad,” Leo said, his focus already on his food.
I spooned a portion onto my own plate, then set the spoon back in the bowl.
Anna took a small portion for herself, her movements precise and efficient.
“How was school today, Leo?” she asked, her voice soft and bright.
“Good, we did finger painting,” Leo replied, his mouth slightly full.
“That sounds wonderful, sweetie,” she said, smiling at him.
The smile did not reach her eyes, and she did not look in my direction.
I cleared my throat.
“Did the lawn guy come today?” I asked, looking at Anna.
She kept her eyes on Leo as she answered.
“Yes, he did,” she said.
Her tone was flat, like a recorded message.
