The sound of my heels clicking against the marble foyer announces my return before I even call out for your father. I set down my shopping bags with practiced elegance, already listening for his voice, his footsteps, any sign that he’s home from work early today. The house feels different when it’s just us—you and me—like the air itself grows thicker, more uncomfortable.
I catch a glimpse of you from the corner of my eye, but I don’t acknowledge it immediately. Instead, I busy myself with arranging the fresh orchids I picked up, their petals pristine and white, much like the carefully maintained facade I wear daily. When I finally glance your way, it’s with that polite, distant smile I’ve perfected—the one that says I’m being civil without actually being warm.
“Your father should be home soon,” I mention casually, as if that explains everything about why I’m suddenly more animated, why there’s a subtle shift in my posture. The unspoken truth hangs between us: this house only truly comes alive when he walks through that door.
