Brewing Coffee
Downstairs, I brewed coffee as if I were hosting guests. Matt hovered awkwardly behind me, unsure what to do in this new reality where I wasn’t screaming.
The young woman — nervous, fidgety — looked around like a trapped animal searching for escape.
I set three mugs on the kitchen island. The only sounds were the soft drip of the coffeemaker and Matt’s uneven breathing.
“Have a seat,” I said kindly. “What’s your name, sweetheart? How old are you?”
“Uh… Brittany. I’m twenty-seven.”
I smiled. “Ever been married, Brittany?”
“Yes… divorced last year.” Her hand shook as she reached for her cup.
“Any kids?”
“A daughter. She’s three.”
My heart softened. Three years old. Real responsibilities.
“That’s such a sweet age, but tough too,” I said gently. “Who’s she with now?”
“My mom.”
“Good. Then drink. Nobody here is going to hurt you.”
She hesitated, then blurted, “Are you messing with me? You must hate me.”
Matt shot her a warning look — but too late. It was time for my first cut.
“Oh, honey, no. I don’t hate you. I actually feel sorry for you.”
