When Marcus returned, he looked almost cheerful.
“Sorry,” he said. “Work never ends.”
“No,” I replied, meeting his eyes. “It truly doesn’t.”
He failed to understand.
We began eating.
I took a spoonful from the uncontaminated bowl and forced myself to swallow. Marcus watched me with bright, eager eyes, waiting for the future he had already begun spending in his imagination.
“This tastes wonderful,” I said.
His smile widened.
“Anything for my beautiful wife.”
Twenty minutes later, he stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence.
His spoon fell against the bowl with a sharp clatter.
The color vanished from his face.
One hand gripped the edge of the table while the other pressed tightly against his stomach.
“Victoria,” he whispered. “Something is wrong.”
I placed my spoon carefully on the table.
Across the kitchen counter, his phone lit up with a new message.
Sophia.
The same sister who had eaten at my table, embraced me during holidays, and called me fortunate as though the word tasted poisonous.
