For three months, he had been leaving before sunrise and coming home after midnight. His shirts smelled faintly of bleach and soap that was not ours. His knuckles were scraped.
Once, I found a red scratch along the inside of his wrist, thin and angry, like someone’s fingernail had caught him.
When I asked, he always gave me the same answer.
« Nothing happened. »
That was the second strange thing.
Robert did not lie well.
That was the second strange thing.
At seven that night, my sister Lila filled our dining room with balloons, cheap paper streamers, and enough noise to make our little house feel like a restaurant.
My mother brought a casserole. Our neighbors came with wine. Someone lit candles on a chocolate cake.
Robert stood near the kitchen doorway, one hand in his pocket, watching me like he was waiting for a verdict.
