Evelyn used to say marriage was about endurance. But this wasn’t a storm. It was a shipwreck.
**
When I stepped through the front door, the chaos had already started.
Frank barked from the living room, “Spencer, those LEGO blocks are everywhere. I’m not stepping on one tonight, you hear me?”
“I’ll clean them up, Dad.”
“Mia, are you planning to comb your hair today, or just scare the neighbors?”
She huffed, grabbing a brush and running upstairs.
Frank marched into the kitchen, face stormy. “What’s for dinner?”
The chaos had already started.
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“Spaghetti. Your favorite,” I replied, forcing calm. I stirred the sauce, trying to match my hands to my voice.
He watched me, arms crossed. “Everything ready for Saturday? The guest list, the cake? The drinks?”
“Everything’s handled, Frank,” I smiled sweetly.
“You’re acting strange. Is something wrong?”
I shrugged, wiping my hands. “You said you wanted the perfect party. I’m making sure you get it.”
He grunted, picking up a beer bottle. “Just don’t mess it up.”
“Everything ready for Saturday?”
**
Later, as I tucked the kids in, Spencer clung to my arm. “Mom, are you and Dad fighting?”
“No, honey,” I whispered, smoothing his hair. “I’m just… tired. But things are going to change soon, okay?”
He nodded, trusting me.
Downstairs, my husband flipped through channels, barely glancing at me. I sat at the dining table, phone in hand, and started printing out every ugly message I’d taken photos of.
Page after page, I slid them into my notebook, my hands steady for the first time all day.
“Mom, are you and Dad fighting?”
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