I moved silently, placing silverware on napkins without a clink, walking on the balls of my feet—an interpretive dance designed solely to not disturb the peace of my husband, Tremaine.

At 6:00 AM sharp, the heavy footsteps descended from the second floor. Tremaine appeared, a study in corporate perfection. His suit was armor; his tie was a noose of silk. As he sat, I placed the mug of black coffee and the steaming plate of eggs before him, timing the motion to the second his elbows touched the table.

He didn’t look at me. I had become less than the furniture; I was merely the mechanism by which his needs were met.

“The coffee is a little bitter today,” Tremaine said. His voice was dry, detached, his eyes glued to the scrolling screen of his smartphone.

“I’m sorry, honey,” I whispered, wringing my hands into my apron. “I measured the grounds exactly this time.”