I kept my hand on the doorknob for a long moment.
Then I walked away, because that was what a sensible wife did.
That was what a woman who trusted her husband was supposed to do.
By the following afternoon, I had nearly convinced myself that nothing was wrong.
“Milk, apples, bread, and something for dinner,” I told Leo while buckling him into the grocery cart. “Help Mommy remember.”
“Milk, apples, bread,” he sang, kicking his legs.
“Good boy.”
The store buzzed with its usual afternoon noise—squeaking cart wheels, a baby crying two aisles away, and a thin pop song drifting from the speakers above.
I selected a carton of milk, placed it in the cart, and joined the checkout line.
For the first time in weeks, I felt the pressure in my chest ease.
Almost peaceful.
Almost normal.
Leo sat in the cart seat, humming and swinging his legs while I checked my watch and wondered what I should cook for our anniversary.
