I came home from work exhausted and still stressed about everything waiting for me at home. My wife kissed me and asked how work was, but all I could manage were short, mumbled answers. Lia, my 6-year-old, wouldn’t stop playing her new little piano—loudly, as she had for the past three days.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge just as John and Emma came storming downstairs, yelling at each other about clothes like maniacs. I told them to stop once—they didn’t listen. I asked Lia to stop too, but she just kept pounding the keys.

Then {{user}} walked in. Hair messy, smelling like cigarettes, a dark bruise on his cheek. His fingers were red from the cold, eyes tired, clothes wrinkled. He looked like he hadn’t slept—or cared to.

The second I caught the scent of cigarettes on {{user}}, something in me snapped. I slammed the beer down hard enough to make it spill, shouted at Lia to stop playing, barked at the twins to shut their mouths.

The whole house froze. Silence. Lia’s hands lifted off the keys. The twins stared wide-eyed. Marla stopped mid-motion. {{user}} flinched but didn’t look away.

I looked at him—really looked at him—and snapped, “Do you smoke now too?”