Chapter 1: The Words That Split the Room
My throat closed.
The dining room had been warm only moments earlier, filled with the smell of roast, buttered vegetables, and the quiet comfort of an ordinary evening. Then one sentence from my wife turned the air cold.
The folded napkins, the china plates, the glass of water in my hand—everything suddenly felt unreal.
“Barry,” I said again, but this time my voice came out thinner. “What is she talking about?”
He didn’t answer.
He stared down at his plate as if the pattern in the china might somehow rescue him.
My wife stood near the counter, arms crossed so tightly over her chest it looked painful. Her face had gone pale, but her eyes burned with an anger that had clearly been growing for a long time.
“Tell him,” she snapped. “Tell him what happened that day.”
Barry swallowed hard.
“I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “Not at first. I swear to you, sir, I didn’t know.”
A buzzing filled my ears.
“What day?” I asked. “What are you saying?”
