Everett loved that house deeply, not because of comfort but because of what it suggested about him. He admired the symmetry, the tall white columns, the iron lanterns framing the entrance, and the way guests paused in the foyer and said something approving before stepping further inside.
He liked spaces that made people believe in a version of him.
At exactly 7:12 that Tuesday morning, he stood in front of the bathroom mirror tying his tie with one hand while scrolling through emails with the other. He had that quiet confidence some men wear like an expensive fragrance that never quite fades.
“You should take it easy today,” he said without turning fully toward me.
“I’m nesting,” I replied, rubbing lotion across my stomach while sitting on the edge of the bed.
“You have been nesting for weeks now,” he said with a faint smile.
“That’s because babies don’t follow schedules,” I answered.
He smiled again, though only his lips moved. “Don’t wait up tonight. Dinner with a client might run late again.”
Tuesday. Then Thursday. Then Tuesday again. A rhythm so established it had stopped drawing attention.