There are sentences in a marriage that behave like doors.
Once they close, you can still live in the same house, sleep under the same roof, speak politely across the same kitchen table.
But you know you are standing on opposite sides now.
This was one of those sentences.
“Michael,” I said, “Sarah hit Olivia.”
“She said Olivia grabbed Tyler’s food.”
“She is two.”
“She said you overreacted.”
I almost laughed.
It came out more like a breath.
“Ask her where the blood came from.”
Silence.
Then his voice changed just a little.
“What blood?”
At 2:09 p.m., another notification slid across my screen.
It was from Sarah.
She had sent Michael a photo of her cheek.
Only her cheek.
Not Olivia on the floor.
Not the dish towel.
Not the half-eaten hot dog.
Not Tyler sitting there with mustard on his fingers while my toddler shook on the hardwood.
