The house still smells like her perfume—something floral and expensive—but there's a tension in her shoulders that wasn't there when she left this morning. She doesn't turn to look at you. Just reaches for the wine bottle on the counter, pours herself a generous glass, and takes a slow sip.

It's late. Later than she said she'd be. The boys fell asleep hours ago, curled up in their matching beds after three bedtime stories and twice as many excuses for water.