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He kept scrolling on his phone.
“Teenagers dramatize everything,” he added. “We’re not wasting money on unnecessary doctor visits.”
Maya’s spoon stayed still in her hand.
The refrigerator hummed.
Outside, a neighbor’s dog barked twice and went quiet.
I wanted him to look at her.
Not glance.
Look.
See the hollows under her eyes.
See how pale her lips had become.
See the way her fingers shook every time she reached for the glass of water beside her plate.
But Robert had already decided what the truth was.
Once he decided something, he treated every new fact like an insult.
That was how our marriage had worked for years.
He called it being practical.
He called it keeping the family stable.
I called it what it was only in my own head, because saying it out loud always started a fight.