The knife slips between my fingers, slicing the pad of my thumb. Blood beads instantly, dripping onto the chopping board beside the carrots I was dicing for dinner—the same meal Emily, his late wife, used to make every Thursday. Across the kitchen, Lily stares, unblinking, her arms crossed. She hasn’t touched her homework.\n\n‘He liked it better when Mom made it,’ she says flatly.\n\nI wrap a napkin around my thumb, forcing a smile. ‘Maybe we can make it together next time.’\n\nThe doorbell rings. Through the peephole, I see him—Julian, dark hair damp from rain, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder, holding a sketchbook like a weapon. Last time I saw him was at the funeral, when he refused to shake Daniel’s hand.\n\nNow he’s here, and something in his eyes tells me he didn’t come to mourn.