The morning behaved the way it always does.

Fucking chaotic.

Two bowls on the counter. Milk already sweating in the glass. One of them crying about something that wouldn’t matter in an hour.

The other asking stupid questions.

The dog scratching at the back door.

Something sticky under my foot.

I moved through it all without thinking.

Pouring. Stirring. Wiping my hands on a towel that was already damp.

Opening one cabinet. Then another.

Standing still long enough to forget what I was looking for.

The phone sat on the wall.

Green. Corded.

It had been there before we moved in.

I thought about taking it down once.

But then I wouldn’t have had anything to wait for.

I stopped with the cereal box still in my hand.

Cheerios spilling over the rim.

It hadn’t rung yet.

There was a knock at the door.

“Bus in ten,” Joan called through the wood.

The moment broke.

I set the box down.

Wiped my hands again.

Opened the door.

The cold came in first.

Then her.

Coat already on. Keys in her hand. One of hers tugging at her sleeve.

“Running late?” she asked.

“Always,” I said.

We moved through it the way we always did.

Shoes. Jackets. Zippers that wouldn’t catch. Kisses placed without thinking.

One of mine whining because the socks felt wrong.

Joan laughing softly like mornings could still be funny.

The door shut behind them.

The house went still.

I stood there longer than I needed to.

Hand still on the knob.

I could have left.

Groceries. Laundry. Gas station. Coffee. Anything.

If I wasn’t there, I wouldn’t hear it.

If I didn’t hear it, I wouldn’t have to answer.

That’s what people think.

I turned back toward the kitchen.

Picked up the knife.

Set it down.

Turned on the stove without putting anything on it.

Turned it off.

Waited.

When it rang, it didn’t startle me.

I let it go once.

Twice.

Then I picked up.

It used my maiden name.

I fuckin liked that.

“Yes,” I said.

I listened.

It asked if the children were gone.

I said they were.

It breathed a little.

“I understand,” I said.

I hung up.

The house stayed quiet.

My hands were steady now.

I folded the towel into a square.

Joan’s door was unlocked.

It usually was.

She turned when I came in.

Half a smile already there.

Something about coffee, I think.

Or needing eggs.

Or maybe asking if I was alright.

People ask things when they don’t want the answer.

I crossed the room.

The knife moved cleanly across her throat.

It didn’t take long.

After, I stood there a second.

Waiting to feel horror.

Or guilt.

Or anything useful.

But nothing came.

It never does.

I went back to my kitchen.

Set the potatoes on the counter.

Peeled them one at a time.

The knife moved beautifully.

Even cuts.

Same as last time.

Water boiled.

A pan set down a little too hard.

The small ordinary sounds returned.

Nothing about it felt different.

It never does.

That’s the worst part.

Not the blood.

Not the call.

How easy everything becomes after.

Some women pray for guidance. Mine came through the kitchen wall.

I knew it would be that day.

I knew what the call would be.

I knew what I would do when it came.

I could have let it ring.

I knew it would say her name.

And I fuckin answered anyway.

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