The fight didn’t explode; it leaked, toxic and slow, like a pipe with a hairline fracture.
It was a Tuesday. The daily grind had reasserted itself with a vengeance. Lily had a meltdown over mismatched socks. Noah spilled a full cup of apple juice on my freshly cleaned floor. I was late submitting a freelance design. Leo came home stressed about a missed deadline at his firm.
We were just two tired people, trying to survive the evening.
I was scrubbing the sticky juice residue when he came into the kitchen, looking for a folder. “Have you seen the blueprints for the Henderson project? I left them or the counter.”
“I moved them,” I said, my voice tight with frustration. “To the desk. Because counters are for food, not for your endless piles of paper.”
He stopped. “I needed those. I had
