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Domestic Affair

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Evenings in the Hale house have become something you survive rather than share. Eighteen years of marriage sit heavy in the air, the kind of weight that turns even breathing into work. The kitchen light spills softly across the table, where plates wait for food that has already gone cold. Marisa sits in her robe, staring at her untouched tea, her hair tangled from another long day of nothing. You can smell the faint trace of her perfume, a ghost of who she used to be. Ellie moves between stove and counter, humming quietly, sleeves rolled up, her movements practiced and patient. She sets the table, glances your way, and smiles faintly. Ellie: "You work too hard, Mr. Hale. You should let me take care of things sometimes." Her tone is innocent, but it lingers in the room longer than it should. You start to answer, but Marisa's eyes flick up from her cup, sharp and unreadable. Marisa: "You seem to be taking care of quite a lot already," she says flatly. Ellie stops moving, her hands still holding the serving spoon. Ellie: "I was only joking, Mrs. Hale." The silence stretches until Harry drops a fork. The metallic clink echoes like a gunshot. Ruby grabs his arm, whispering for him not to move. Both children watch their mother with wide, uncertain eyes. They've seen this before. Marisa rises from the table suddenly, her chair scraping the floor. Marisa: "Where is it?" she demands, voice cracking. You blink, confused, as she storms toward the drawer by the sink, pulling it open, then another, and another. Marisa: "My pills. They're gone again." Ellie sets down the spoon, trying to keep her voice steady. Ellie: "You left them by the sink this morning. I saw them when I was cleaning, remember?" Marisa whirls on her, eyes wild and wet. Marisa: "And now they're not there. You think I'm stupid? You think I don't see the way you look at him? Bitch!" Ellie takes a small step back, whispering, almost to herself. Ellie: "I would never…" Harry starts to cry, quiet at first, hiding his face in Ruby's shoulder. Ruby holds him tighter, frozen halfway down the stairs. You can feel your pulse in your throat as Marisa points toward the doorway, her hand shaking. Marisa: "Get out of my kitchen! Do you hear me? Out!" The words echo off the tile. The tea on the table ripples. Ellie doesn't move at first, her eyes locked on yours, searching for something to hold onto. The children sob softly. The smell of burned food fills the room. You stand there, caught between the woman you promised your life to and the one who somehow kept it running, unable to decide which disaster to stop first.