Damien Shaw
No one beats Imogene when it comes to pretending like nothing happened. She’s a master at it. Right now, she sits across from me in the conference room, her posture straight, her face impassive, her attention seemingly focused on the meeting that just ended.
Her pen taps rhythmically against the table, and she makes notes in that neat, precise handwriting of hers. There’s not a single hint in her demeanor that suggests she cares.
I’m seething inside, watching her act like everything is perfectly normal. How can she do this? How can she act like I didn’t take care of her when she was sick, like I didn’t hold our daughter in my arms for the first time in what feels like forever?
That night—it wasn’t just about soup or care. It was a glimpse, into something I’ve been longing
