We were arguing about dishes.
That's what I need you to understand. Dishes. A pan in the sink I'd asked him to wash three times that he kept saying he'd get to and hadn't. Stupid. The kind of fight that means nothing on its face and everything underneath because nobody screams about a pan unless they're screaming about something else.
"I said I'd do it–"
"You said that yesterday. And the day before. And last week about the scholarship meeting you didn't tell me about, so forgive me if I said I would doesn't carry the weight it used to."
That landed. I watched it hit. His jaw tightened. His eyes went flat. And I knew I'd crossed the line from the pan into everything else – Richard, the lies, the pattern, the version of him I'd compared to Caleb in his own kitchen – but I couldn't stop b
