That weekend, I invited them both for dinner under the guise of routine affection, although my true purpose lay in observation rather than hospitality, and throughout the evening Darren spoke incessantly about expenses, inflation, and the exhausting burden of financial responsibility, while his eyes drifted repeatedly toward his phone as if tethered by invisible strings, and Mia, seated quietly beside him, pushed food around her plate with a nervous hesitation that pierced me more deeply than any accusation could have.
When Darren excused himself to use the restroom, I leaned toward Mia, lowering my voice until it barely rose above a whisper.
“Mia, sweetheart, are you safe at home?”
She stared at her hands, her shoulders curling inward.
“Mostly,” she answered.
That single word reverberated inside me with devastating force, because safety should never require qualification, and I felt something shift irreversibly within my understanding of the situation I had long refused to examine closely.