The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the living room walls, but it couldn't fully obscure the tremor in Amelia's hand as she reached for the phone bill. Another call, late at night, a number she didn't recognize. She'd been so sure she was imagining things. That a flicker of unease in her gut, as though a pin had scratched the lining of her stomach, was merely her own insecurities playing tricks. Now, staring at the printout, she felt a familiar heat crawl up her neck, followed by a clenching in her chest that made it hard to breathe. The bill fell from her fingers, scattering onto the worn rug, a silent indictment of her failing.
She picked up the scattered pages, her movements stiff. Should she confront him? The thought stalled, a cold knot forming in her stomach. What if she was wrong? What if she made a fool of herself, again? She looked around at the meticulously organized apartment, the plants she'd carefully nurtured, the framed photos of them together. Each object seemed to silently accuse her of somehow not being enough.
The front door clicked open. Her heart leaped into her throat. She fumbled with the bills, quickly stuffing them under a cushion. "Hey," she managed, her voice tight, forcing a smile that felt brittle. "How was your day?"