I felt small. Like I had shrunk out of my own life, and no one had noticed.
That night, Peter came home past midnight. He slammed the front door and dropped his keys on the table like it was any other Tuesday.
“You won’t believe what happened after you left,” he said, his voice rising.
“That guy got us kicked out! Turns out he owns the place! Who the hell does that?”
I stood in the kitchen, still in my heels, with my mascara smudged, my appetite long gone.
“Do you know what Mom said?” he continued.
“She said the food wasn’t even that good. She made something better at home when we got back.”
That was it.
Not a single apology. Not even a moment of reflection.
Just anger and more of the same.
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