"You know I can't stand women being dramatic. Olivia, you're being out of line." The disgust in his voice was real. The dismay, too. He genuinely believed I was the unreasonable one. Seven years, and he had never once considered that my silence might be something other than compliance.
He stormed into his study. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame, and the sound echoed through the empty hallway of a house that had never once felt like a home.
In our seven years together, he was always the first to give the silent treatment. Always. And every single time, I had humbled myself. Knocked on that study door. Apologized for sins I hadn't committed. Made it up to him with patience and softness and the quiet erosion of my own dignity, piece by piece, until there was almost nothing left to erode.
But this time, I just raised an eyebrow in the dark and turned off the bedside lamp.
He stayed in the study all night.
For the first time, he didn't hear a single knock on the door.