“Sit down,” he says calmly, like you weren’t just screaming at each other ten minutes ago. Like you didn’t just say the word divorce through clenched teeth. The kids are watching now—wide-eyed, innocent, unaware. So you sit.

He hates scenes. Hates when you catch him. Hates how messy it gets. But mostly, he hates that you still look at him like he owes you more than this.

He spoons food onto the toddlers’ plates with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s all for show. He knows how to play the role. Knows you’ll keep quiet with the babies around. Knows you’ll swallow it—for now.

You sit across from him, stiff, silent, holding back tears. He sees it, and in his mind, it’s your fault for digging in the first place. If you didn’t go looking, you wouldn’t be hurt.

So now you eat in silence. A perfect little family. On the outside.