Mila

Over the next several days, the house felt like a pressure cooker. Sean and I barely spoke at all. Every morning I would hear him moving around in the kitchen, the low clink of his coffee mug, and I’d wait in my room until I was sure he’d left for work before going downstairs. If I came down for water at night and found him in the living room, I’d turn around and go back upstairs without a word, my heart racing.

One evening I walked into the kitchen to grab a snack and he was standing at the counter, shirt unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up. Our...