The morning Derek left for his “business trip” was so normal I can still smell it when I think about it—coffee, lemon cleaner, warm toast, that faint detergent scent that clings to freshly washed dish towels. Normal had become my coping mechanism. If the house looked tidy and the schedule was orderly, I could pretend the tension between Derek and me was just a phase, just stress, just adulthood pressing too hard. He rolled his suitcase to the front door with a bounce in his step that felt almost rehearsed, kissed my forehead like a man who had nothing to hide, and told Lily to “be good for Mommy.” Lily stood on the rug in her pajamas, hair tangled from sleep, her stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm. Derek’s smile didn’t reach his eyes when he looked at me, but I’d learned to stop noticing details that made my stomach tighten. As the door shut behind him, I heard the car start, heard tires on gravel, and felt that familiar mixture of relief and guilt—relief that the house would be quieter for a few days, guilt for feeling relieved.