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Not the dramatic, slamming-doors kind of silence. Worse. Polite. Efficient. She answered questions about dinner and schedules, but nothing else. Her eyes slid past me as if I were furniture she’d already decided to replace.
Two weeks later, a delivery truck stopped in front of our house.
The driver struggled up the walkway with a large, taped-up cardboard box. Heavy. Industrial-looking. My wife’s name was printed on the label in bold letters.
I hesitated only a moment before cutting the tape. After all, we were married. No secrets, right?
I folded back the flaps.
