Frustration.
Loss of independence.
The emotional part had spent weeks swallowing fear, answering alarms, managing the yard, and ensuring the financial pressure never reached him.
His anger still hurt.
I put away the groceries.
Carefully.
Quietly.
The jar of blackberry preserves went into the refrigerator, though it belonged in the pantry.
I did not notice until much later.
Noah needed space.
I needed somewhere to place anger that did not belong on him.
I went downstairs.
The workshop was empty.
Sunday light filtered through the high windows, revealing every layer of salt and dust on the glass. I took a bucket, rags, and cleaner from the utility room.
Then I scrubbed.
The windows first.
The inside of the bay doors.
The salt haze from the office glass.
I climbed the rolling stair platform and cleaned panes no one had touched in years.
Physical labor simplified the noise in me.
Noah was frightened.
I was tired.
Neither truth made either of us cruel.
The insurance claim was still unresolved.
The yard still required money.
My partner had shouted because he needed his life to belong to him.
I had responded by leaving the apartment.
The thought stopped my hands.
Had I gone downstairs to give him privacy?
Or had some uglier part of me wanted him to notice my absence?
