“I came here to be nice,” she finally declared. “And this is how you talk to me.”
“Don’t forget your place.”
“‘Being nice’ doesn’t involve screaming and making demands,” I replied. “And if you burst in again without warning, the conversation will be very different.”
She fell silent, pursed her lips angrily, and headed for the exit.
“I’m going to tell my son everything,” she threw over her shoulder from the hallway.
“Go ahead,” I said calmly after her. “Just have him talk to me first next time.”
The door slammed shut, and the apartment was quiet again. I sank onto a chair and suddenly noticed my hands were shaking. My phone vibrated: a message from my husband. I hadn’t opened it yet, but I already knew—the conversation was just beginning. And much more than those two hundred thousand depended on how I handled myself next.
I didn’t open the phone right away, though. Let him wait. After her shouting, a heavy, sticky silence hung in the apartment, as if the air was saturated with someone else’s anger. I walked through the rooms, mechanically straightening the pillows on the sofa, clearing the mug of cold tea from the table, as if I were tidying up not the house, but my own head. But my thoughts kept returning to the same thing: he had told her. Himself. Without me…
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