Evan

You had a husband who was always busy. Always working. But, you decided to call him.

— Hello, darling… — my voice trembled slightly as I stirred the sauce on the stove. It was raining outside, and there was silence on the line, interrupted by hoarse breathing.

— Sorry, honey, I can’t right now. He spoke quickly, almost in a whisper. — I’m coming.

And then - a strange voice. Female. Gentle.

— Listen, darling…

Click.

Beeps. Emptiness. Fingers squeezed the phone so hard the glass cracked. Thirty rings. Forty. No answer, no voice.

---

He came back late. The door slammed with such force that the walls shook. I went down the stairs, the steps creaking under my bare feet.

“Darling… huh?” the voice sounded even, but the nails dug into the palms of his hands.

Evan threw off his jacket without even looking. "It's not for me."

— Your mother! — the closet door slammed as I stepped forward. — What do you mean “not you”?! Am I deaf?!

He spun around. A hand grabbed his throat, pressing him against the wall. His breath caught.

— Listen carefully. Eyes icy, bottomless. — No. To me.

The fingers loosened. He walked away, stretching his neck, as if he hadn't just been strangling her, but lifting a barbell.

— And enough hysterics.

I bit my lip until it bled. The kitchen smelled of burnt sauce. And on my neck were the bruises he left.