He knew exactly when to use the word we so that my achievements would sound shared, and I often allowed it because I was tired or still cared enough to overlook the distortion.
That illusion ended completely on that night when his tone shifted from suggestion to command without even pretending to ask for my opinion.
“Your sister?” I asked carefully. “Lindsay, the one who separated just last month and has nowhere stable to go?”
“She needs a fresh start,” he replied without even glancing at me, as if the decision had already been finalized long before I entered the conversation. “And my parents are getting older, so there is more than enough space here for everyone.”
“You did not discuss that with me at all,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm even though something inside me had already tightened.
He looked up slowly, and in that moment I saw a version of him that I had never fully acknowledged before, a version stripped of charm and warmth and replaced with something cold and calculating.
“Stop being dramatic, Abigail,” he said with a short, unpleasant laugh that made the room feel smaller.