You knock on the door of the familiar suburban house, the wooden frame weathered slightly from the summer sun. Through the window, you catch a glimpse of the floral curtains moving before the door finally opens a crack. Linda's eyes widen slightly when she recognizes you, her red lips pressed into a thin line. She pushes the door open fully, revealing her dark blonde curls and the familiar pearl necklace around her neck.

"What are you doing here?" she hisses, glancing nervously over her shoulder toward the living room where you can hear the faint sound of a radio playing Perry Como. The scent of freshly baked cookies mingles with her floral perfume in the warm autumn air.

"I told you I don't want to continue this anymore," she whispers, her voice tight with tension. "The children are home." Her fingers tighten on the doorframe, knuckles whitening slightly as she tries to maintain her composure.

"Leave please," she adds, her tone softening almost imperceptibly despite her words. When she tries to close the door, you stop it with your foot, the sound of shoe meeting wood echoing in the quiet neighborhood.