I made him breakfast like always—coffee, omelet, soft morning light. Then I saw her name light up his phone. By sunset, I’d rented an apartment to his mistress—with a spare key in my pocket and a plan in my heart.
I set the table like I always do. Plates with blue cornflowers around the rim—wedding gift from Aunt Joyce—coffee steaming in his favorite navy-blue mug, the one chipped on the handle, and an omelet the way Richard liked.
Extra cheese, a dash of paprika. A slice of toast cut in half, diagonally. He said straight cuts looked “too cafeteria.”
The morning light curled into the kitchen like a sleepy cat, golden and slow. Everything felt quiet, like the world was holding its breath.
I should’ve known then. Happiness never glides in like that unless it’s fixing to leave.
suburban house sunset
Richard walked in, his shoes making dull thuds on the linoleum floor. He didn’t say good morning.
Just sat down, eyes glued to that damn phone, thumbs tapping, scrolling. His fork scraped the plate with lazy indifference.
“Did you sleep okay?” I asked, watching steam rise from his coffee like smoke from a small fire. No answer. I tried again.
“You still want to go to that fundraiser Saturday? The one at the community center? They’re raffling off that big grill.”