This scene—this ugly, suffocating farce—had played out before. And every time, it left the same dull ache pressing behind my eyes.
The next morning, the swelling had subsided only slightly. It still hurt to walk, but I forced myself out the door anyway.
Albert Murray's project was on a tight schedule and I expected to hit the ground running as soon as I joined. With paperwork still to submit and time running short before I needed to leave the country, I pushed through the pain.
When I returned that afternoon, the house was quiet, but the air inside was tense. Sara sat on the sofa, arms crossed, lips tight. Elise was next to her, angrily swiping at her tablet.
As soon as she saw me walk in, she shot up and shouted, her tone filled with undisguised contempt.
"It's already getting dark! Where the hell have you been?! Why didn't you pick me up from school today?! And why haven't you made dinner yet? What are Mom and I supposed to eat?!"
Now that Francis was returning, Elise didn't even bother to keep up any act. All the hostility and disgust she had were spilled out like poison.
Sara didn't stop her. Instead, she turned toward me, her eyes brimming with disdain.