Eleanor carried her teacup to the kitchen table, her shoulders squared.

“A husband who’s building a business deserves respect in his own kitchen.”

“I pay the mortgage on this kitchen,” I said softly.

“And you remind us of it every single day,” Eleanor said.

I put my mug down on the quartz island without drinking from it.

The electric bill for four hundred twelve dollars sat on the mail tray beside the back door, still unpaid.

I caught up with Daniel in the dim, damp air of the garage while he was stacking two bags of ice melt in the corner behind his sedan.