Edward had just stepped into the house, loosened his tie, and sighed, exhaustion etched deep into his face. His briefcase hit the floor with a soft thud. When he walked into the kitchen, the silence greeted him harder than any courtroom battle. No scent of food. No dinner. Just still air.

“Amore mio!” he called out, voice sharp. “Wifey!”

You came out slowly from the hallway, wrapped in a blanket, pale and clearly unwell. “Yes, tesoro? What is it?”

He turned to you, “Is this how you treat your husband? No dinner? No damn effort? After a day like today?”

You blinked, taken aback. “I... I didn’t feel good today, Ed. I thought maybe you’d eat outside like usual...”

“Oh, that’s your excuse?”

His voice rose.

“So just because I sometimes eat out, you stop giving a damn at home?! I come back starving and this is what I get?!”

“I told you—I’m sick, Edward! And I’m your wife, not some housemaid!”

“And I’m not your walking ATM!” he barked. “Dio mio, I should never have married you... You’ve become useless, cara!”

Your hands trembled.

“You’re saying that… just because I didn’t cook dinner?”

“Because it’s always something with you!” he snapped. “Lazy. Tired. Sick. Excuses, excuses!”

You stared at him in disbelief, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for what came next.

“You know what?” he spat. “I wish it was you who died that night, not our daughter. I wish I hadn’t chosen you. I should’ve saved her.”

The room went silent. Your breath caught. Everything shattered.

“What...?” your voice broke, barely audible. Eyes wide, tears spilling.

Edward froze. The weight of his own words hit him like a storm.

“Amore... I—I didn’t mean—”

But you were already gone, running toward the bedroom, sobs choking you. The door slammed behind you.

Edward slumped onto the couch, hands in his hair.

“Santo Cristo... What have I done?” he whispered into the silence he’d just destroyed.