Chapter 3 - The Cold Kitchen War
The urgent care doctor gave me a temporary fiberglass splint, a sling, and a stern warning: *Complete non-weight-bearing status for six weeks.* By three in the afternoon, after an agonizing cab ride home with two hungry, screaming infants, I was back in our split-level suburban house.
Every movement was torture. Fastening diaper tabs with one hand required pinning the writhing babies against the changing mat with my chin. Mixing formula required holding the bottle between my knees while twisting the cap with my right fingers. Sweat soaked my collar; tears dried sticky on my cheeks.
At five-fifteen, the front door swung open. Andrew walked into the foyer, smelling of expensive bourbon and damp grass. He tossed his golf umbrella onto the hardwood floor, where puddle water immediately began to warp the oak.
"Where's dinner?" he asked, loosening his silk tie.
I stood behind the kitchen island, trembling. Toby was wailing in the swing; Leo was crying in his crib upstairs. "Andrew, I broke my arm in two places. The doctor said I need surgery on Thursday to put in a titanium plate. I can't lift more than two pounds. I couldn't even cook oatmeal today."
Andrew walked over, his expression hardening into cold disgust. He looked at the cluttered counter—the empty formula cans, the unwashed bottles, the piles of clean cloth diapers I hadn't been able to fold.
"Look at this pigsty," he scoffed. "Mothers don’t get sick days, Caroline. You’ve been home all day. Figure it out."
He turned on his heel toward the den.
Beside the sink, sitting innocently behind a row of drying baby bottles, my iPhone rested on a silicone stand. The screen was black, but the red dot in the dynamic island had been glowing steadily for four minutes.
May you like
Every word, every sneer, every ounce of venom had just been encoded into an uncompressed, crystal-clear digital file, automatically backed up to my secure iCloud account.
***
