Part 1
Six hours on the interstate can hollow you out. Rain on the windshield, brake lights blooming red in the gray, trucks throwing sheets of water that slap the car like an accusation. By the time I turned onto our street, my shoulders felt welded into place and my hands still had the shape of the steering wheel pressed into them.
All I wanted was warmth and a voice that sounded glad I was home. I wanted Daniel to meet me at the door, take my suitcase, ask about the client meeting that had run late and the hotel that smelled like bleach. I wanted his mother, Linda, to at least leave a lamp on the way she always did, like she was proving she contributed something besides criticism.
The house was dark.
No porch light. No glow behind the curtains. No television murmur leaking out into the night. The place looked like it had been emptied, like a model home after the real family has already moved on. I sat in the car for a second, engine ticking, and watched our windows for movement that didn’t come.
I told myself they’d gone to bed early. I told myself the breaker hadn’t tripped. I told myself a dozen small lies because the alternative was a thought that made my stomach tighten.
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. My suitcase wheels clacked across the hardwood, too loud in the silence. The air smelled stale, like the house had held its breath all day and never exhaled. Daniel hated silence. He filled it with sports, podcasts, loud chewing, a constant stream of noise that made me feel like I was living inside his head.
