By seven, the pot roast had dried out in the oven.
I set the table anyway.
That was the strange thing about betrayal, I would later understand. Even when your instincts are screaming, your body keeps performing familiar routines. I folded the napkins. I poured iced tea into two glasses. I sat across from an empty chair and forced myself to take a few bites because not eating felt too dramatic, like admitting I already knew something was wrong.
Daniel finally walked in at 9:26 p.m.
He didn’t rush to explain. He didn’t look guilty. He dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, loosened his tie, and stood there watching me like I was part of a joke he’d been saving all day to tell. He smelled like expensive cologne and whiskey, neither of which belonged in our house.
“You didn’t answer,” I said.
He smiled.
Not kindly. Not nervously. It was the smile of a man who believed he had already won.
