Snow ticked against the front windows like fine sand, a soft static that made the house feel farther from the world than it was. Ethan had left the tree lights on even though it was still afternoon—the soft pulse of warm white over glass ornaments and paper stars. The girls were out: Claire at the restaurant, Olivia at a dress fitting with his mother. Silence lay over the rooms like folded linen.
The doorbell chimed.
He already knew it would be Julia. He’d seen her name flash on his phone earlier, ignored it, then typed and erased three different apologies that all looked like lies.
She stood on the threshold in a navy coat and a red scarf, cheeks pink from wind, eyes steady. “Hi,” she said, not asking. “Can I come in?”
He stepped aside. “Of course.”
They moved to the living room, to
