This fragile calm felt stolen; I treaded lightly, fearing disruption. That weekend, he suggested grocery shopping. Pushing the cart down aisles, he even asked what I'd like for dinner. Sunlight streamed through supermarket windows; momentarily, life seemed back on track. Selecting greens, a flicker of hope stirred within.
That Jarring Ring
Past seven that evening. Mark washed dishes; mindless drama aired on TV. Abruptly, a shrill ring pierced the air—Sophie's dedicated alert, sharp and urgent like an alarm. The remote nearly slipped from my hand. Kitchen water ceased.
A Familiar Routine
Mark dashed out, hands dripping, grabbing his phone. He glanced at me—a look layered with discomfort, urgency, and ingrained entitlement. Turning away, he answered softly, "Hello? Sophie?" I sat upright on the sofa, unmoving, listening to his murmured assurances.
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