Fear Comes Home

At first, when you spot him from your window, it all seems fine.

You smile and move to go greet him at the door, but your heart suddenly skips and your breath catches. Something in how he moves... you pause to look at him again as he raises his face briefly to the window, and when you eventually breathe out again your pulse races. Your scalp tightens, and the ice starts moving through your veins, reaching all parts of you, ensuring that they shiver so hard that he will see, and he will be angry – angrier than he already is.

You step back, knowing he has seen you and you must meet him at the door: cheerfully and under control. As you move, your hands flutter to your face, and you rub your cheeks to bring back their colour. You swallow hard to clear the lump in your throat and damn the swelling tears that must not come. You are almost at the door and your voice has caught in your throat. You cough and take a deep breath as the door opens and you smile up at this man - your husband - your eyes all shining as if in the first fast days of a summer infatuation.

Forcing out your breath allows a convincing greeting, and he is too concerned with his own thoughts to notice your hands tremble as you take his coat to hang it. You slip into the kitchen to heat his meal. But as you grasp the table and breathe deeply to regain your calm, you are suddenly aware of his presence there behind you, seeking the excuse he needs to validate the venting of his fury.

There in the sink before you, some dishes are still unwashed.

For him, it will be enough.