Tonight, she stayed on the very edge of the mattress, leaving a wide, empty space between us.
I closed my eyes, telling myself she was just tired.
The smell of brewing coffee woke me the next morning.
I walked into the kitchen, expecting the tension to have cleared with the night.
Anna was standing at the stove, flipping pancakes.
She wore her gray cardigan, her hair tied back in a neat bun.
“Good morning,” I said, pouring myself a mug of coffee.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice pleasant but distant.
She placed a plate of hot pancakes on the table.
“Your lunch is packed,” she said, pointing to the brown paper bag near the microwave.
“Thanks,” I said, sitting down. “You did not have to do that.”
“It is no trouble,” she said.
She sat down with Leo, who was coloring a picture of a fire truck.
I watched her pour syrup on Leo’s plate, her movements calm and efficient.
She looked beautiful, but she felt like a stranger who had been hired to manage my home.
There was no anger in her face, no red eyes from crying.
