Chapter 2 - The First Casualty
Saturday morning arrived with bright October sunlight spilling across the hardwood floors. Grant didn't come home until past midnight, and by nine o’clock, he was moving through the kitchen with an exaggerated, injured air of a man who believed he was the victim of an unreasonable wife.
He poured himself a cup of coffee, leaned against the counter, and watched me feed Ivy her morning purée.
“Look,” he said, clearing his throat. His voice carried the strained casualness of someone attempting a magnanimous olive branch. “About yesterday afternoon. I was stressed. The Q3 projections at the firm are a mess, and I walked into a kitchen that looked like a disaster zone. It wasn't fair to take it out on you.”
I wiped a speck of sweet potato off Ivy’s chin with a damp cloth. “Is that an apology, Grant?”
He stiffened slightly, his mug pausing halfway to his mouth. “It’s an acknowledgment that we’re both under a lot of pressure. Let’s just wipe the slate clean. We’re taking Ivy to my parents’ place for Sunday lunch tomorrow, right? My mom’s expecting us.”
Before I had Ivy, Sunday lunches at Grant’s parents’ house were an exercise in slow psychological attrition. His mother, Evelyn, specialized in passive-aggressive commentary delivered with a bright, maternal smile—everything from my choice of career clothes to the way I kept house. Since Ivy was born, Evelyn’s commentary had sharpened into a daily barrage of unsolicited advice disguised as concern.
“Are you sure she’s getting enough milk, Emily? She looks a bit small for five months.”
“Grant works so hard to support you all; it’s the least you can do to make sure dinner is on the table when he walks through the door.”
In the past, I would have swallowed my irritation, smiled, and gone along with it to keep the peace.
“We aren't going to your parents’ house tomorrow,” I said quietly, setting the spoon down.
Grant stared at me, his mug stopping entirely. “What did you say?”
“We aren't going.”
“Emily, be reasonable.” A flash of irritation crossed his features, replacing the manufactured calm of a moment ago. “My mother has been asking after Ivy all week. If we don’t show up, she’ll call every hour, and then my dad will get involved. Why are you punishing my family because we had a disagreement yesterday?”
“I’m not punishing anyone,” I said, picking up Ivy and carrying her over to the sink to wash her face. “I just have plans.”
“What plans?” Grant’s voice sharpened, rising an octave. “What possible plans could you have that take precedence over a family dinner?”
I turned around, holding our daughter against my hip. I looked at the man I had married—the man who believed my entire world shrank to the dimensions of this kitchen as soon as my income stopped.
“I’m meeting a real estate agent at ten o'clock,” I said, my voice entirely level.
Grant let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “A real estate agent? For what? Are we looking at larger patio furniture? Because if you want to redo the back deck, you can wait until my bonus clears in December.”
“No, Grant,” I said, watching the color slowly drain from his face. “I’m looking at a three-bedroom apartment downtown. For Ivy and me.”
May you like
The kitchen became so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator. Grant set his coffee mug down so hard the ceramic cracked along the base, dark brown liquid spilling across the white marble counter.
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