When Amara was settled, they sat on the living room floor among open boxes like survivors of a mild flood. Marcus found two wine glasses wrapped in newspaper and a bottle someone had given them years ago for an anniversary. He held it up questioningly. Nia shrugged. He poured.
"I keep waiting for the part where I yell," Nia said. "The cinematic part. The thrown glass. The speech about respect."
"You can still have that part," Marcus said. "I'd deserve it."
"I know you'd deserve it. That's why it feels cheap. I don't want a performance of anger that lets us pretend the slate is clean afterward. I want something slower. I want you to understand that trust isn't a light switch you flipped off for my own good and can flip on because the secret is out."
Marcus nodded, staring into his glass. "What does slower look like?"
"It looks like you telling me the ugly things while they're still small," Nia said. "Job interviews that go badly. Bills that scare you. Days when you're ashamed. It looks like me not being protected from our life. It looks like joint passwords and joint calendars and no more garage openers handed to third parties because you're drowning alone. It looks like therapy, probably. For you. For us. It looks like me taking the director job and you taking over school pickups without acting like my career is a debt you serviced in silence."