A Quiet House
The house felt unnervingly silent when I came home early from my morning yoga class in Chicago — the kind of quiet that twists your stomach.
I dropped my keys on the counter and froze at the faint creak of the floor upstairs.
Slipping off my sneakers, I climbed the staircase. The guest room door was slightly open, and I caught the low murmur of voices.
I stopped pretending to be quiet and pushed the door wide open — startling my husband and the young woman beside him.
“Emily, I can explain!” Matt stammered, jumping up like a teenager caught sneaking out. His voice cracked on my name.
But I didn’t flinch. Why should I? I’d been expecting this for years.
Instead, I turned and said calmly, “I’ll put on some coffee.”
