Denise looked at Damon.
He shook his head once.
His mother did not ask more in front of the children.
She extended her arms.
“Come here, baby.”
Ava hesitated.
Damon whispered:
“It’s okay.”
She went to Denise.
Noah followed.
Before leaving the kitchen, he looked back at his father.
“Check the freezer too.”
Damon froze.
Renee’s head turned sharply.
“What’s in the freezer?”
Noah disappeared into the hallway.
Damon walked toward it.
Renee stepped in front of him.
“Damon.”
He stared.
“Move.”
“This has gone far enough.”
“That depends entirely on what’s in the freezer.”
Her eyes filled.
“Please.”
He had never heard that tone from her.
Not anger.
Fear.
Damon opened the freezer.
For several seconds he saw nothing unusual.
Frozen vegetables.
Ice.
Meal trays.
Then a large black insulated tote on the bottom shelf.
He pulled it out.
Inside were sealed meal containers from Maison Table.
Dozens.
More than one week.
Some dated January.
February.
March.
Damon stared.
“Why?”
Renee said nothing.
“What were you doing with these?”
“They don’t need that much food.”
“That is not your decision alone.”
“I am their mother.”
“Yes.”
His voice sharpened.
“And I am their father.”
Renee’s tears came.
“You are barely here.”
The sentence hit.
He did not defend himself.
Because it was partly true.
She continued.
“You leave Sunday night.”
“I work.”
“You come back Tuesday.”
“I work.”
“You leave again Thursday.”
“I know.”
“You call from airports and ask if they ate dinner as if asking is parenting.”
Damon looked away.
Renee’s voice broke.
“I am the one here.”
“Yes.”
“I am the one fighting Noah about homework.”
“Yes.”
“I am the one Ava screams at when she wants another cookie.”
“Yes.”
“I am the one every teacher calls first.”
“Yes.”
“So when I tell you the children need structure, you do not get to walk in one night and act like I’m insane.”
Damon looked back.
“No.”
He shook his head.
“I get to walk in one night and object to my children being hungry.”
“They are not starving!”
The word echoed.
Ava cried from the hallway.
Damon immediately turned.
Denise carried her upstairs.
Noah followed.
He waited until they disappeared.
Then faced Renee.
“I did not say starving.”
She looked away.
“You did.”
“No.”
He stepped closer.
“You heard it because some part of you knows this went somewhere you never intended.”
Renee’s face crumpled.
For a moment she looked less like an adversary than the woman Damon had married eleven years earlier.
Twenty-eight.
Brilliant.
Funny.
Certain they would never become one of those couples who communicated only through calendars.
They had become exactly that.
“What is the black tote?”