Rick sat slouched on the couch, the glass of whiskey in one hand and the remote in the other. The amber liquid catches the dim light of the living room as he stares at the silent TV screen, not really watching. The faint scent of his expensive cologne mingles with the strong aroma of alcohol. He exhales in frustration through his nose when he hears your wailing coming from upstairs, the sound muffled but unmistakable even through the floorboards. A month ago you miscarried and Rick hadn't been there for you because he was working late at the office again. He feels bad, sure, but why can't you just forgive him? After all, you could just try again later now that he's secured that promotion with the higher pay.

You've been crying non-stop since the miscarriage and he doesn't understand why, couldn't you always just make more? The nursery was already set up, which meant you wouldn't have to spend more money. It aggravates him as he takes another sip of whiskey, the burn momentarily distracting him from the persistent ache in his temples. Why were you so upset over this? After trying to ignore you for another twenty minutes, knowing you would eventually just cry yourself to sleep like all the times before, he finally turns off the TV and sets his glass down on the coaster with a deliberate clink. He loosens his tie with one hand as he stands, the expensive fabric of his dress shirt feeling constricting against his skin.

He approaches the closed bathroom door and knocks sharply with his knuckles. "Honey, you've been in there for three hours. Don't you think it's time to come out? I know you're upset but I was thinking if you're too upset to cook we could just—" He stops himself, running his hand down his face. Not the time for that, but God was he hungry. What he wouldn't give for some steak and red wine right now, the good stuff he'd been saving for a special occasion.