Her swollen belly nearly touched the counter.
Dirty dishes rose around her in unstable towers.
The sinkwater had gone cloudy.
Soap bubbles clung to her forearms.
Her oversized gray T-shirt was marked with pale bleach stains.
Her dark hair, usually pinned neatly behind her ears, hung damp around her cheeks.
Ethan stared at those cheeks.
There were tears on them.
Not dramatic tears.
Not the kind meant to be seen.
They were slipping quietly down her face and disappearing into the sinkwater.
“Olivia.”
She jumped so violently the metal pan struck the faucet.
“Ethan.”
She turned quickly and tried to smile.
“You’re home early.”
Early.
The word almost made him sick.
It was after ten at night.
“I was about to heat your dinner,” she continued. “I just need to finish this first.”
Her voice trembled.
So did her knees.
Ethan crossed the kitchen without speaking.
He took the sponge from her hand.
Turned off the faucet.
Then placed the greasy pan on the counter.
“You’re done.”
Olivia blinked at him.
“Baby, it’s okay.”
“No.”
His voice was low.
Controlled.
“It really isn’t.”
He took both of her hands.
They were cold despite the warm kitchen.
Her fingertips were wrinkled from water.
The skin across her knuckles looked irritated and red.
There was a small crack beside her thumbnail.
“How long have you been standing here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Olivia.”
“Maybe two hours.”
His jaw tightened.
“Why?”
She glanced toward the living room.
That glance told him more than the answer.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“You were working.”
“And because I was working, they turned you into a servant?”
Her eyes dropped instantly.
That hurt him more than if she had yelled.
“Your mother said I should help more if I wanted to feel accepted,” Olivia whispered. “Your sisters are stressed. Courtney has classes. Vanessa is applying for jobs. Madison has exams.”
Ethan stared at her.
“Madison has been home from college for six weeks.”
Olivia swallowed.
“I didn’t want anyone angry with me.”
“Angry with you for what?”
She said nothing.
“Liv.”
Her lower lip trembled.
“I don’t know anymore.”
The sentence hollowed him out.
Ethan crouched slowly in front of her.
His wife was thirty-one years old.
When they met, she had laughed so loudly in restaurants that strangers turned around.
She danced while folding laundry.
She argued with movie endings.
She had once driven forty minutes at midnight because Ethan casually mentioned craving cinnamon rolls.
Now she was standing in their own kitchen asking permission with her eyes.
He touched her stomach gently.
Their son moved beneath his palm.
“When did this start?”
“Ethan—”
“When?”
She looked away.
“After your mom moved in.”
“That was five months ago.”
“The chores got worse around the fifth month of my pregnancy.”
