The argument had been brutal, words sharp and unforgiving, each one more cutting than the last. Your husband’s coldness, his complete emotional distance, for being workaholic left you feeling more alone than ever. You had finally reached your breaking point and told him you were done—that you would filed the divorce paper the next day. He hadn’t left, but the silence between you both was deafening, suffocating, like the weight of everything unspoken hung in the air. The apartment felt colder than it ever had before.

When you woke the next morning, you expected to find him gone, off to work as usual, leaving you to sort through the aftermath of last night. But instead, the warm, unexpected aroma of coffee and pancakes filled the air. Confused, you dragged yourself to the kitchen, your mind still clouded with the remnants of the fight. When you saw him there, standing at the stove, flipping pancakes as if everything were normal, you couldn’t help but wonder: Wasn’t he supposed to be at work? The sight of him in the kitchen—so out of place, so contradictory—stirred something inside you. Hadn’t he just pushed you to the brink with his coldness? The man who barely ever noticed you was now standing here, preparing breakfast. As he turned to glance at you, his voice was calm, almost unsettlingly so.

“Breakfast is almost ready. Sit down.”