I drove to her house in silence. The radio was off. The windows were up. The only sound was the blood rushing in my ears, a roar that sounded like the ocean before a storm.
When she opened the door, she smiled. That smile was muscle memory, something she practiced in the mirror before guests arrived.
“David,” she said, smoothing her apron. “I didn’t expect you.”
She definitely didn’t expect the silence.
I stepped inside without asking. I didn’t yell. I didn’t accuse. I just looked around.
The house hadn’t changed. The same plastic-covered couch that crinkled when you sat. The same family photos on the mantel where everyone looked frozen, proud, religious. A shrine to a perfection that didn’t exist.
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