“My mother was right — I never should’ve married a small-town girl like you,” my husband snarled in our dark apartment, whiskey heavy on his breath, then

Kate looked at him then.

He was standing in a ruined room with sunlight on his face, and for one aching second, she saw the man from the café again.

So she believed him.

Again.

Part 6

The duplex became their project.

That was how Kate described it to her mother on the phone.

“Our project.”

Mary listened quietly on the other end, the way mothers do when they hear the word our being used like a prayer.

“Are you resting enough?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re seven months pregnant.”

“I’m pregnant, not made of sugar.”

“You always say that right before you do something foolish.”

Kate laughed.

It felt good to laugh.

For a while, work on the duplex gave her hope. There was too much to do to sit around waiting for Paul’s moods to turn. She scraped old wallpaper until her shoulders burned. She scrubbed baseboards. She swept broken plaster into contractor bags. She wore one of Paul’s old T-shirts and tied her hair up with a scarf.

The smell of the place changed slowly.

Smoke gave way to bleach.

Dust gave way to sawdust.

Old carpet gave way to fresh paint and apple-scented cleaner.

Tom’s money paid for the big things. Plumbing repairs. New appliances. Replacement windows. The cabinets. The washer and dryer. The bathroom mirror. The heavy oak front door with brass locks that Paul insisted would make the place look respectable.

Paul liked saying that word.

Respectable.

He supervised contractors he knew from the store. He stood with a clipboard and talked about estimates as if the money in those envelopes had come from his overtime. Sometimes he helped. Sometimes he disappeared for hours to run errands and came back smelling like fast food and cigarettes.

Kate did not complain.

She was too busy building.

One afternoon, she was on her knees painting trim in the future nursery when Paul leaned in the doorway.

“You’ve got an eye for this,” he said.

She looked over her shoulder. “You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

She smiled despite herself. “Thanks, I think.”

He stepped into the room and looked around. The walls were a soft yellow, not too bright, the color of early morning butter. Kate had chosen it from the clearance rack at Home Depot, and the clerk had told her it was discontinued.

Paul touched the doorframe.

“This is going to look good.”

“It already does.”

He nodded.

Then he said, “Mom thinks we should put the recliner in here.”

Kate’s smile faded a little. “What recliner?”

“Grandma’s old one.”

“The brown one with the cracked vinyl?”

“It’s free.”

“This is the nursery.”

“Babies don’t care.”

“No, but I do.”

Paul gave her a look.

She hated that look. It said she was being sentimental. Difficult. Wasteful.

“We can find a secondhand rocker,” she said.

“With what money?”

Kate glanced down at the paintbrush in her hand.

“My dad’s money bought the windows, Paul.”

“I know.”

“And the appliances.”

“I know.”

“And the plumbing.”

His jaw tightened. “I said I know.”

“I’m not asking for a marble staircase. I’m asking not to put a broken recliner in our baby’s room.”

For a second, he looked like he might snap.

Then he smiled thinly.

“Fine,” he said. “Whatever you want.”

It did not feel like a win.

The word our began disappearing from Paul’s sentences after that.

“My place is coming along.”

“My contractor says the kitchen will be done by Friday.”

“My mom thinks I should paint the porch gray.”

Kate noticed every time.

She told herself not to.

Pregnancy made emotions bigger, everyone said. Maybe she was being sensitive. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe ownership was a man’s way of feeling useful when so much was changing.

On a quiet Sunday morning, she stood in the nursery folding tiny blankets while Paul talked on the phone in the living room.

His voice was low and casual.

“Yeah, Mom, it’s finally done. My apartment looks great now.”

Kate stopped folding.

The blanket slid from her hands to the floor.

“Yeah,” Paul continued. “I’ll send pictures when I get the new furniture in.”

My apartment.

The words were not shouted. They were not dramatic. They were almost boring.

That made them worse.

Kate stood in the soft yellow nursery with one hand on her belly and stared at the wall she had painted herself.

When Paul hung up, she bent slowly and picked up the blanket.

He walked past the doorway.

“You okay?”

She folded the blanket carefully.

“Yes.”

“You look weird.”

“Just tired.”

He nodded and kept walking.

Kate said nothing.

She told herself peace was more valuable than pride.

She did not yet understand that peace built on silence is just a room where the truth waits.

Part 7