I have gone back over that evening more times than I can count, and what I keep returning to is not fear, because I was not yet afraid.

It was a kind of wrongness I had no name for — a husband who cooked a whole dinner in order to watch two people eat it, who chose a particular plate for a particular person and turned its flaw away from her, who sat with a full plate and an empty mouth and said, every time I asked, in a minute.

I did not know what I was seeing.

I only knew that I was seeing something, and that my own kitchen had stopped being a place I fully understood.