He had to be joking.
There it was. “I pay the rent.” Like a stamp, he could press down on any argument to flatten it.
I opened my mouth to say something, but I was so tired and so ashamed. And the baby was pressing on my ribs as if she were trying to climb out through my throat.
So I said nothing. I gathered my pregnancy pillow, slid my feet into flip-flops, and walked out.
Three flights of stairs. In August. At three in the morning.
I opened my mouth to say something.
I honestly thought he’d apologize the following morning. I pictured him looking sheepish over coffee, maybe with a bagel, saying he’d been an idiot, that he was stressed about the baby too.
Instead, at 6:34 a.m., my phone buzzed against the dashboard.
“You can come back up now.”
That was it. Not “Sorry.” Not “How did you sleep?” Just permission, as if I were a dog he’d left in the yard.
