A pause.
God. That sounds stupid, even writing it.
My chest tightens.
Why do I feel guilty for wanting something nice?
Because someone taught you to.
When I got home, he was already there.
My grip tightens on the page.
I didn’t expect him to be. He’d finished work early.
The dread begins to seep in now, subtle but unmistakable.
I should’ve known something was wrong the second I saw him pacing in the kitchen. He barely looked at me when I walked in—just that sideways glance that makes me feel like I’m being examined. Like I’ve already done something wrong and I just haven’t figured out what it is yet.
I exhale slowly, the familiarity of it hitting too close.
I set the bags down and started unpacking, talking just to fill the silence. “How was your day?” I asked.
No answer.
He just kept pacing.
My jaw tightens.
My heart started beating faster. It always does when he gets like that. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Married less than a year, and I already feel this… dread.
Not ridiculous.
Conditioned.
Finally, he stopped and looked at me. Really looked at me.
I can see it. That look.
“What the hell did you buy this time?”
The shift is sharp, cutting.
I told him about the sofa. Tried to keep my voice casual, like it wasn’t a big deal.
It was already a big deal.
“How much?”
Demand, not question.
“Thirteen thousand,” I said. “It’s custom.”
I close my eyes briefly.
“Thirteen thousand fucking dollars?”
There it is.
