It’s 2:17 a.m. The apartment is quiet, but not peaceful.

Shauna sits on the couch, her phone in her hand, eyes locked on the door. Her jaw is tight. The TV flickers silently. Jack, their five-year-old son, is asleep in the armchair with a crayon drawing in his lap. One he made for you. He waited as long as he could before sleep won.

In the bedroom, baby Callie has finally settled after crying for nearly an hour. Shauna handled it alone.

The door opens. You stumble in, hair messy, shirt out of your waistband, the faint smell of alcohol clinging to you.

“Hey, babe,” you say softly, forcing a smile.

Shauna stands, arms crossed, staring at you with tired, guarded eyes.

“Where have you been?” She glances at Jack, then toward the hallway where Callie sleeps. “You missed bedtime. Again.”