PART ONE
That morning had started like so many others in their big suburban house outside Atlanta. Nala had been on her feet since before dawn, moving between the kitchen and the laundry nook like a quiet shadow. The faint aroma of hot breakfast mixed with the soapy scent of detergent from the washing machine humming in the corner.

She moved quickly but softly, almost as if she were trying not to leave a trace. Over the years, Nala had trained herself to move that way in her own home. The less noise she made, the fewer chances there were of upsetting her husband, Tmaine.

At six in the morning, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Tmaine came down from the second floor, every line of his shirt ironed perfectly. His shoes were polished, his hair trimmed.

He looked like any successful American businessman on his way to another busy day. As soon as he appeared in his freshly pressed shirt, Nala set a mug of hot black coffee and a steaming plate of breakfast on the table. Tmaine sat down and picked up the mug without even looking at her.

“The coffee’s a little bitter today,” he said dryly, eyes locked on his phone screen. “I’m sorry, honey. I thought I measured it right this time,” Nala answered in a low voice.

He didn’t respond. He pushed the breakfast around on his plate, took a few distracted bites, then went back to scrolling. Nala stood beside the table, hands loosely folded in front of her apron, waiting awkwardly in case he needed anything else.

He said nothing. The silence between them was so dense and cold it seemed to smother the steam rising from the coffee. Nala tried to remember the last time they had shared a breakfast with real laughter.

Maybe two, three years ago? Before the late nights at the office, before the endless work trips, before his distance started turning into something darker. “Is Zariah up?” he asked finally, still not lifting his gaze.

“Yes, honey. She’s in the shower. She’ll be down for breakfast soon,” Nala replied.

Sure enough, small footsteps came pattering down the stairs a minute later. Zariah, their seven-year-old daughter, ran in wearing her neat private school uniform. Her smile was bright, a sharp contrast to the heavy air in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Mommy. Good morning, Daddy.”

She kissed Nala on the cheek, then went over to her father. For the first time that morning, Tmaine put down his phone and forced a slight smile.