She’s in my house.
My wife.
My chest tightens, and I grit my teeth hard enough my jaw aches.
I climb into bed, turn off the light, and stare into the dark.
I’m furious at her.
I’m furious at myself.
And the worst part is, beneath all that anger, there’s a low, unwanted awareness that she’s under my roof.
Safe.
For tonight.
That thought should annoy me.
It doesn’t.
It just makes me feel trapped in a different way.
***
My alarm goes off at five, and for half a second my brain does that blissful thing where it forgets I’m married.
Then reality snaps back in like a shoulder check.
Talia is in my house.
The annulment deadline is missed.
My life is officially a legal problem.
I swing my legs out of bed and move on autopilot. Shower. Toothbrush. Deodorant. Training gear. The routine is a lifeline. If I keep moving, I don’t have to think.
Except I do think.
Because I catch myself listening for her.
A creak. A door. A footstep.
Instead I hear something else.
A soft clink downstairs.
Then another.
Like dishes.
I pause at the top of the stairs, still damp from the shower, and just… listen.
No. Absolutely not.
I take the steps down quietly, expecting to find her rummaging through my kitchen like she’s hunting for a snack, or worse, making a mess that I’ll have to clean before practice.
What I find makes me stop dead in the doorway.
