My husband asked me to let my sister be his “wife” for one night. He said it like he was asking me to pass the salt.

An empty energy drink can sat on the mahogany coffee table next to a dirty plate that he had managed to leave exactly twelve feet away from the dishwasher. He turned his head just enough to acknowledge my presence as the sports highlights flickered across the television screen.

“Hey, babe, that smells incredible,” he said with a casualness that sounded more like a rehearsed habit than genuine affection. I did not offer a verbal response immediately because I was moving with the surgical precision of a woman who knew that if she stopped for even a moment, the fatigue would finally win.

I salted the water and moved through the kitchen like a ghost in my own home while he waited until the food was actually plated to join me. He leaned against the marble counter with a loose expression on his face that I recognized from years of watching him avoid accountability.

“So my ten year high school reunion is coming up next month and I really need Kelsey to go with me,” he said while reaching for a napkin. I kept chewing my pasta because it took my brain a several seconds to translate his sounds into an actual sentence.