She’d seen him too.

She looked up at me. Her eyes were no longer hollow. They were clear, sad, and incredibly strong.

“I’ll handle this,” she said quietly.

She turned the deadbolt. Clack. She pulled the door open and stepped out onto the freezing porch.

I stood in the doorway, out of the wind, watching my wife walk down the driveway. She didn’t rush. She walked with the deliberate, measured steps of a queen surveying conquered territory.

Ethan saw her coming and gripped the iron bars, his knuckles raw and chapped. The dark circles under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights, cheap coffee, and the brutal reality of minimum-wage labor.