A week before.
Tina woke with a jolt—the kind that comes when your body knows. Mr sun has crawl too high, the clock too cruel. She scrawled out of bed, her heart already in a sprint. Her pillow still warm, her breath fogged with frustration.
Miss day had barely begun and already chaos brewed like a storm in a teacup.
Ana, her little whirlwind of mischief, was under the table—sticky fingers clasped around a crayon she clearly wasn't supposed to have. The living room looked like a warzone of toys and toast crumbs. Tom, bleary-eyed but strangely clingy, had wrapped himself around her waist the second she passed by, pressing kisses into her neck that felt more like anchors than affection.
Still half in yesterday's fight, they exchanged clipped words from opposite ends of the kitchen, neither fully ready to let it go. But it was the sight of her husband emptying the last of the meat into his mouth—chewing with casual satisfaction—that made Tina freeze.
She screeched in horror.
