The kitchen was sterile, smelling of lemon polish and expensive promises. It was the kind of kitchen you see in magazines—gleaming marble countertops, stainless steel appliances that cost more than my first car, and a silence so heavy it felt like a physical weight pressing against my eardrums.
David hummed as he chopped vegetables, the very picture of a modern, devoted father. The thwack-thwack-thwack of the knife against the wooden board was rhythmic, precise, almost hypnotic. He was making a salad. Or maybe a stir-fry. It didn’t matter what he made, only that he made it. Because David didn’t trust takeout. He didn’t trust restaurants. He only trusted what he could control.
