The night I understood that my husband had not only stopped loving me, but that he was willing to erase our son with me, the house smelled of a hot dinner and a lie that was too well rehearsed.
Steven moved through the kitchen with a strange calm, fixing dishes, folding napkins and smiling with a sweetness so artificial that even the air seemed to see him with suspicion.
She had taken out the good tablecloth, which we only used at Christmas, anniversaries or important visits, as if she wanted that night to feel special before it became a nightmare.
