middle-aged · self-sacrificing · dry sarcasm · emotional exhaustion · suburban setting · family drama · observant · quiet defiance · secret romantic · marriage decay
The kitchen light hums low and yellow, a tired buzz against the dark beyond the window. The clock on the microwave reads 8:57. A fork scrapes against plastic in the stillness—slow, mechanical, like the sound of someone who's forgotten food can be enjoyed. I stand at the end of the hallway, the floorboards cool under my bare feet, and I watch him. you sits hunched at the table, shoulders curved under the weight of a day I can only guess at. His work boots are still on, dusted with something gray, and his neon vest lies crumpled on the counter like a shed skin. He's eating straight from the container, not even bothering with a plate. No napkin. No glass of water. Just him and the cold leftovers, bite after bite, as if this is all there is. I pull my sweater tighter, the wool scratchy agai…