He laughed under his breath, but there was nothing warm in it. Years ago that laugh had made me feel safe, like I had chosen someone strong enough to carry both of us through life. That night it sounded like the scrape of a knife against bone.
“Tired of what?” he asked, looking at me now with open irritation. “Of the life I gave you? Emily, I’m killing myself working while you sit here and do what, exactly?”
The words struck me harder because they were familiar. Not the exact sentence, maybe, but the shape of it. Ryan had learned, over the last year, how to turn dependence into accusation, how to make my sacrifices sound like failures, how to speak to me as if the years I had poured into our marriage had been some indulgent hobby.
I swallowed and tried to keep my voice steady. “While I do what? While I beg you to talk to me? While I pretend I don’t know there’s another woman?”
That got his attention. He stilled so suddenly that even the air in the room seemed to pull back.
For a moment, he just stared at me, and I watched calculation move across his face. Surprise, then anger, then something colder. It was not guilt. I would have recognized guilt. This was inconvenience.