I looked behind me at the staircase, the kitchen tile, the wedding photo, the sunlight falling across the floor I had paid for month after month while Rodrigo said his commission was late, his mother needed money, the car needed repairs, life was expensive.
“Yes,” I said. “Here.”
He nodded as if he understood.
When they left, I closed the door.
Locked it.
Latched the chain.
Then I walked straight to the wedding photo, lifted it off the wall, and dropped it into the trash.
The glass cracked.
That was when I finally made coffee again.
Not because I needed comfort.
