The refrigerator hummed in the quiet room.

The breakfast pan hissed on the stove.

Mark’s key scraped loudly in the lock.

I held the baby a little tighter against me before I even turned around.

Some deep part of me already understood that whatever had just stepped into that kitchen was not my husband returning home.

It was the end of everything, wearing his navy suit.

Mark walked inside with his tie pulled loose and his hair damp from the morning fog outside.

He smelled faintly of high-end soap, cold air, and an evening spent with someone else.

He looked at the folded napkins.

He saw the clean plates.

He noticed the eggs waiting in a covered pan.

The baby bottle sitting beside the coffee.

Then he looked right through me as if I were nothing but a piece of furniture.

“Divorce,” he said.

There was no apology.