At breakfast the next morning, I told Claire I wasn’t going over there the following weekend. She didn’t even lift her eyes from her phone.
“Fine,” she said while scrolling through something on the screen. “But Dad can’t clean the gutters himself. He’s going to be annoyed.”
“Then he can hire someone better,” I replied quietly.
She finally looked up, surprised for a moment, but she didn’t say anything else.
That Saturday, I stayed home.
Out of habit, I woke up at the same early time as always. But instead of loading my truck with tools, I cooked myself a proper breakfast—eggs, bacon, toast, and fresh coffee. I sat at the kitchen table and ate slowly, enjoying every bite. Afterward, I sat on the couch with a book I had been trying to read for months and spent the entire morning in peaceful silence. For the first time in five years, my Saturday belonged entirely to me.
Around noon my phone buzzed with a message from Claire.
“Dad says the grass looks terrible.”
I read it, set my phone down, and continued reading my book.
An hour later another message arrived: “Mom is asking when you’re coming over.”
