That night I roasted a whole chicken until the skin was golden and crackling, made real garlic mashed potatoes, put together two different salads, set out chips and homemade salsa. The house smelled like a holiday when his friends arrived.
I greeted them warmly, helped wrangle Sawyer away from the doorway, then took both kids upstairs for bath and books. The baby monitor stayed on downstairs.
At first it was just the usual guy talk, clinking bottles, loud laughs about fantasy football. Then Brian’s voice drifted up:
“So when’s Rory going back to work? You guys thinking about a sitter?”
There was a pause. Then Damon, relaxed, laughing already:
“God, I hope soon. I’m tired of being the only one paying for everything. We’ll definitely get a sitter. Hopefully a hot one, you know? I’m a big fan of aesthetics.”
The room roared. He laughed loudest of all.
I stood in the hallway upstairs, toothbrush still in Bonnie’s mouth, feeling the words sink straight into my chest like ice water. It wasn’t rage yet. It was something colder: the sting of being reduced to a punchline in my own house.
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