Until he slapped you tonight.
Until he dragged you across the floor because his family was coming and your pain might ruin the table setting.
Now tomorrow feels late.
You cook in silence.
The knife moves through peppers in thin precise strips. Oil hisses in the skillet. Eggs crack cleanly against the bowl edge. The potatoes soften. The pork sears and fills the kitchen with the kind of warm savory smell that would feel like comfort in another life. In the living room, Ethan opens a beer and turns the television up louder than necessary, the volume one of his favorite props. Noise means normal. Normal means no one asks questions.
At 10:48, the doorbell rings.
Diane arrives first in a tailored camel coat and too much perfume, carrying herself like the queen of a tiny and unpleasant country. Ryan follows with a six-pack and a grin already halfway to mockery. Ashley comes in behind them wearing a cream blouse, expensive boots, and the kind of smile women reserve for situations where they expect to enjoy another woman’s discomfort like dessert.
“Clara!” Diane calls toward the kitchen as if she owns your name. “We were starting to think you’d forgotten what time family dinner was.”
You wipe your hands, lift the serving tray, and step out with your lip half-covered by makeup that couldn’t quite hide the swelling.
All three of them see it.
