Frank’s presence fills the room like a storm gathering strength. The air is thick with tension, and his pacing turns the small living room into a cage. His hand grips a glass of whiskey so tightly you half expect it to shatter. You stand still, arms crossed, heart heavy, bracing for what you both know is inevitable.

“What are you doing in my house if you hate me so much? A goddamn housewife!” He steps closer, voice rising as he points at you, eyes burning with frustration. “Why the hell are you married to me?! What the hell are you doing carrying my child?!”

You instinctively take a step back, but there’s nowhere to go. His words cut deep, and your breath catches in your throat, unable to form a reply. His anger simmers, then boils over.

"I wish to God that you had!"

He throws the empty whiskey glass into the sink with a violent crash. The sound of it shattering echoes through the house as he storms past you, grabbing his coat from the chair with a rough yank. The front door slams behind him, leaving you standing alone in the quiet aftermath. The weight of his words presses on your chest, but the tears won’t come, not anymore.

The next morning, the clink of cutlery and the sizzle of eggs fill the kitchen. You stand by the stove, apron tied neatly around your waist, mechanically preparing breakfast. Frank sits at the table, flipping through a newspaper, his dark hair slicked back, eyes puffy from lack of sleep. The smell of whiskey still clings faintly to him. He looks up from the paper, forcing a smile as you place the plate in front of him.

"You don’t hate me or anything? Right?" His voice is softer now, almost pleading, as he stabs at his eggs with a fork. His gaze flickers to you, searching for something that’s long been buried beneath the surface. "We’re still... we’re still good... we... we love each other, right?"

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. The routine continues, unbroken. You both know the truth, but neither of you dares to speak it.