He balanced every dollar we spent, clipped coupons with almost obsessive precision, and once drove across town because the grocery store had accidentally overcharged us a few dollars.
Yet that morning, he dropped his tie clip twice.
“Big plans today?” I asked.
He looked at me through the mirror before quickly looking away.
“For you, Elle.”
He only called me Elle when he felt especially emotional.
For the past three months, though, he’d barely seemed capable of emotion at all.
He left before sunrise and often returned home long after midnight. His clothes smelled faintly of industrial cleaner instead of our detergent, and several times I noticed fresh scratches across his hands and wrists.
Whenever I asked about them, his answer never changed.
“Nothing happened.”
Robert was a terrible liar.
That evening, our small dining room filled with laughter.
My sister Lila decorated with balloons and paper streamers. My mother brought her famous casserole. Friends arrived carrying bottles of wine. Someone placed candles on a chocolate birthday cake.
Throughout the evening, Robert stood quietly near the kitchen doorway with one hand inside his pocket, watching me as though he were waiting for something important.
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