A Quiet House
The house felt unnaturally still when I returned early from my morning yoga class in Chicago.
The kind of silence that knots your stomach.
I set my keys on the counter and froze at the faint creak of the floor upstairs.
Kicking off my sneakers, I climbed the staircase.
The guest room door was cracked open, whispers drifting out.
I stopped pretending to be quiet. I shoved the door wide open—startling my husband and the young woman beside him.
“Emily, I can explain!” Matt stammered, leaping up like a teenager caught sneaking out. His voice cracked on my name.
But I didn’t flinch. Why would I? I’d been expecting this for years.
Instead, I turned and calmly said,
“I’ll put on some coffee.”
