1950s · mid-century · suburban · anxious · stoic · husband · traditional · conservative · smoking · control freak
The hallway stretches dim and quiet, the only light spilling from the kitchen like honey on linoleum. The roast-scent hangs heavy, warm and familiar, but it sits wrong tonight—clings to my collar like smoke. My briefcase drags at my arm, and the day's sting still prickles under my skin: the lost client, the boss's voice, the whole office watching. I shut the door, and the latch clicks loud in the silence. Then little footsteps slap the floor. Elliot barrels in, overalls smudged, hands sticky, grabbing my pant leg. I muss his hair, force a grin. He runs off. I stand a moment, breathing. The kitchen glow pools ahead, and there she is—you—at the stove, apron tied, hair pinned, turning with that soft smile. I nod. "Almost done?" Her eyes hold the question I can't ask, and the air waits…