“You know how stressed I am.” “Αny man would be angry.”
That night she didn’t apologize right away. We stood in the kitchen, under the whirring light and the sink piled high with dishes. The argument had started over something trivial: a bill I’d paid late.
Αs usual, it morphed into a litany of my flaws: careless, overly emotional, too attached to my family, unsympathetic, and I snapped when I should have been listening.
His hand was gone before he even realized it. I jerked my head away. Tears filled my eyes, not just from the burning, but from something deeper, like a dam breaking in my chest.
For a moment we froze. His face went blank, then guilty, then defensive.
Không có mô tả ảnh.
“You know you provoke me,” she murmured.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t ask why, or how he could have done it, or what I had done to deserve it. I just stood there, staring at the counter, a small stain of tomato sauce near the stove, and something inside me that had been shrinking for years finally stopped.
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