Chapter 8
Eight
The mug appears beside me without warning, fresh coffee, still steaming, handle angled toward my right hand.
I glance up to find Daniel smiling at me, that half-smile that used to make my stomach flip but now makes me feel slightly ill.
His eyes are fixed on mine with careful attention, like a man running diagnostics on a marriage he senses is malfunctioning without understanding why.
“Thanks,” I say, with the warmth I’ve perfected over the past three months. The words hang between us in the morning kitchen light.
I watch him move back to the counter where his phone sits face-down, his movements easy in a way that makes my chest ache.
Three months ago, I wouldn’t have noticed how deliberately casual he is about picking it up.
I wouldn’t have caught the subtle change in his posture, his shoulders relaxing, head tilting slightly, as he reads whatever’s on the screen.
I wouldn’t have clocked the private smile that lifts the corner of his mouth before he catches himself and sets it down again.
But I notice everything now.
“Bins are out,” he says, reaching for his keys. “And I ordered more nappies. They’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” I say again, the same carefully even tone. “Drive safe.”
“Love you,” he answers, the phrase delivered with the casual confidence of someone confirming the recycling has been collected. Not a meaningful declaration. Just a fact he takes for granted, like the existence of Mondays.
I nod, focusing on Maisie’s tiny face as she suckles at the bottle. “Love you too.”
The front door closes with a soft click that seems to echo through the entire house. I wait ten seconds, then fifteen, listening for the sound of his car starting. When it finally comes, my chest loosens, the tightness I'd been carrying since I opened my eyes finally releasing.
It’s the worst part, I think, the part that still catches me off guard: how physically exhausting it is to hold myself together all the time.
My jaw aches from being held too tightly.
My shoulders stay just below my ears, muscles tensed against the constant vigilance of not revealing what I know.
Even my breathing has changed, shallow when he’s in the room, as if taking too deep a breath might accidentally let something slip.
I finish feeding Maisie and place her on her playmat, watching as she immediately starts grabbing for the stuffed octopus Luca bought her, a ridiculous creature with eight different textured tentacles and googly eyes that make me laugh despite everything.
From the nursery, Milo makes a small, unhappy sound that quickly escalates into the cry that means “I have pooped and I am extremely disappointed in everyone involved.”
“Coming,” I call, already moving toward his room. “Keep your pants on.”
He hasn’t. That’s literally the problem.
Twenty minutes later, we’re settled in the living room, Milo on his back on the playmat, legs kicking with determined enthusiasm as he works his way toward some destination only he can see; Maisie beside him, staring at her brother in confusion.
I’ve got a pile of baby laundry on my lap, twenty-seven tiny socks that, through some law of domestic physics, only form seven complete pairs, and my phone propped against a cushion beside me.
The group chat has exploded in the thirty minutes since I last checked it. Luca has sent a voice note, nineteen seconds long and loud enough that I have to turn the volume down before pressing play.
“ELS,” his voice fills the living room, slightly breathless with indignation.
“You will not believe what just happened. A woman, a grown adult woman with a mortgage, just asked me if our oat milk was ‘emotionally sourced.’ I blinked. Not ethically sourced. EMOTIONALLY. SOURCED. I asked her to clarify and she said, ‘you know, like, from happy oats?’ I nearly handed in my resignation on the spot.”
I laugh despite myself, a real one that makes both twins look up in surprise.
Liv has already replied, a single GIF of a cat slowly moving away from a camera with text that reads “I am not equipped to handle this level of human”, followed by her own contribution: a screenshot of a couple’s joint Instagram account with the caption “We’re just SO blessed!
#couplegoals #we’rethesamemonster” and Liv’s commentary: “If your relationship requires a combined Instagram where you refer to yourselves in the plural, I’m legally allowed to set your phone on fire. ”
Adrian has reacted to Luca’s voice note with a single tired emoji, the one with the blank expression and single bead of sweat, and Harper’s message sits slightly apart from the madness: a screenshot of what appears to be a pantry with rows of tinned goods organized by height, then alphabetically within each height category.
“He has alphabetized the tinned goods,” the caption reads.
“I married a man who alphabetized the tinned goods.”
I put my phone face-down on the couch cushion and look at Milo, who has somehow managed to roll himself sideways and is now staring at me with the expression that blames me for everything. His tiny forehead is creased in concentration, one hand reaching toward me with focused determination.
“What?” I ask him. “What’s the question?”
He responds with a sound that might be agreement or might be a bout of gas, genuinely difficult to tell, and continues his campaign to reach my face, his tiny fingers opening and closing with determination.
I pick him up, settling his warm weight against my chest, and breathe in the smell of his head, baby shampoo and that indefinable scent that belongs only to him. For a moment, just a moment, everything else falls away.
Then Maisie makes an unhappy sound from her position on the playmat and the moment breaks. I transfer Milo to one hip, reach for Maisie with my free arm, and stand in one fluid movement that three months ago would have been impossible but now feels like the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m going to make more coffee,” I tell them, heading for the kitchen. “And I’m probably going to forget to drink it again, but the intention is there.”
They don’t respond, Maisie already distracted by the ceiling light, Milo conducting an extremely serious investigation of my collarbone, but that’s okay. They don’t need to. They’re perfect even when they don’t yet engage in my witty banter.
***
The dishwasher hums its soft mechanical nothing as I wipe down the counter, my movements almost on autopilot. Daniel comes up behind me and kisses my shoulder, his mouth a quiet pressure against the thin cotton of my shirt.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low. “Maybe this weekend, after the twins are asleep, we could spend some time together?”
My body wants to recoil, but three months of practice holds it still. I have become an expert in the art of not-reacting, of holding my body still when I want to run.
I turn slightly, cloth still in hand, and with just the right amount of regret. “Maybe,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Milo had a rough night yesterday, and I’m just so exhausted. This weekend might be better.”
He nods, accepting this without question. “Sure,” he says, reaching past me for a dish towel. “No pressure. Whenever you’re ready.”
He squeezes my shoulder once, a casual, affectionate gesture that makes my body lock up, and goes back to stacking plates, already moving on to the next topic. “Did you see the email from the paediatrician? About the twins’ eight-month checkup?”
I stand at the counter with the dishcloth in my hand, watching him move through the kitchen with the easy confidence of someone who has no idea he’s living in a completely different marriage than the one he thinks he’s in.
It’s the acceptance that gets me though, the way he backs off so easily, how quickly he redirects.
Months ago, I would have been relieved. Now though, I am surprised that he hasn’t been more worried, and dare I admit it, slightly hurt.
Anger would mean he wanted something real, something beyond the surface.
Anger would mean he felt the distance between us, recognized it as significant, wanted to close it.
But this, this easy retreat, this casual redirection, isn’t about me at all.
He wants the version of his life that runs smoothly and requires nothing difficult of him.
I put the dishcloth down and reach for my wine glass, taking a sip that’s slightly larger than polite society would recommend.
The red is too warm, I’ve been drinking it too slowly, but I don’t care.
The slight burn as it goes down feels like the closest thing to honesty I’ve allowed myself all day.
Twenty minutes later, we’re settled on the couch in what the casual observer would recognize as a perfectly normal evening scene.
Daniel has chosen something with explosions and dramatic music, a movie where women exist primarily to be rescued or to provide exposition, and I’m half-watching it, my attention split between the screen and the baby monitor glowing on the coffee table.
Our wine glasses sit side by side, not quite touching.
Daniel’s arm is stretched along the back of the couch behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of my shirt but not quite making contact.
It’s the closest we’ve been in weeks, this careful non-touching, this dance I have been doing, and my body is hyperaware of it, every cell alert to his presence.
Not in the way it used to be, with that electric awareness that came with early attraction.
Now it’s more like the vigilance of prey, a constant awareness of potential threat.
The movie hits a lull, some kind of emotional revelation that requires the male lead to look thoughtfully into the middle distance while dramatic music plays, and my phone buzzes on the coffee table. A barrage of messages from Liv.