I stared her down.
"You want an apology?" I scoffed. "In your dreams."
I spun on my heel, marched to my apartment door, and punched in the code.
The lock beeped. I stepped inside.
Immediately, something felt wrong.
The floor gleamed. The trash can was empty. The throw blanket on the sofa was folded with military precision, and fresh laundry scent drifted from the balcony.
Too clean.
Claire was not a domestic woman. She never mopped unless forced. Only took out the trash when it overflowed. Preached about hand-washing delicates but let them pile up until she ran out of clothes.
These trivialities had been constant friction in our marriage. We fought about it endlessly.
I remembered her defense vividly: "I'm carrying the weight of the entire Vance family, and I respected your wish not to have children. I never force you to do anything. What more do you want?"
So I'd compromised.
Swallowed my complaints. Tried to make time for housework myself.
Claire had made a show of sincerity by hiring a weekly housekeeper. But a paid stranger wouldn't hand-wash intimate apparel or obsessively rearrange and color-code an entire wardrobe.
Standing before the master bedroom closet, I stared at the unnatural orderliness. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. Every neatly folded shirt, every aligned hanger screamed that this house had acquired a new male master.
Then I saw it.
A new addition to the photo wall. Claire holding the child, leaning into Colin's arm. She was smiling gently—a soft, domestic look I rarely saw anymore.
It had been taken on Claire's birthday. Colin had shown up in a crisp white shirt, holding a small homemade cake. He'd smiled shyly, asking for a picture to "share in the birthday girl's luck." I hadn't thought twice before snapping it for them.
I never imagined he'd print it out and hang it in our master bedroom.
A silent, brazen provocation.
Voices drifted in from the living room.
"He was at fault first," Claire said, defensive. "You were just being kind. If he doesn't appreciate it, that's his problem. Why apologize?"
A pause—likely listening to Colin—then: "Ruby is young and talented. Smooth sailing her whole life, never suffered real hardships, so she has a temper. I don't want you two fighting because of me. I'll apologize to her first. You soften your attitude, and we'll consider it closed."
Her voice lowered, but the walls were thin.