My mother stood near the hallway, her fingers clutching the hem of her cardigan, her eyes darting between my father and me.

My father slowly turned around to face her.

The look on his face was not anger anymore; it was something much worse.

It was the look of a man who had just realized his entire life was built on a foundation of sand.

“Arthur,” my mother began, her voice small.

“How could you?” he asked, his voice cracking on the last word.

He took a step toward her, his boots heavy on the floor, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“How could you do this to me?”

“How could you do this to our son?”

My mother did not back down this time; she drew herself up, her jaw tightening.

“You want to talk about what’s fair, Arthur?” she hissed.

“You want to talk about what I had to sacrifice?”

I watched them, my back pressed against my kitchen counter, the cold laminate biting through my shirt.

The phone on the table suddenly lit up, a bright blue square in the dim light of the afternoon, buzzing against the wood.