Days and then weeks passed, and when he didn’t come, the idea of him quieted inside of her, until it was almost like a whisper. Suddenly, there were real things in her life to contend with, and she turned her entire focus upon Matilda. She understood how much her daughter hated her, but what concerned her more was the boy she had fallen for. Even though she did not understand why, he made her more uncomfortable than she could bear. Even worse was that Matilda refused to listen, sneaking around as if Therese did not know what she was doing.

It all infuriated her, but right at that moment, it was mostly about the socks. Since they had moved into the townhouse, Matilda had developed an annoying habit of randomly tossing them into the first room she could find. They taunted her from the hallway floor, misshapen and stiff from dried sweat. She yelled for Matilda, but her voice cracked, making the sound disappear inside her throat. Anger coursed through her, and she whipped the ones she could find into the trashcan.

Outside, the wind roared, slapping twigs into the side of the house. So rarely did the weather match her mood that she closed her eyes to fully appreciate the moment. There was a tap at the door, but it took a second knock, soft yet determined, to catch her attention. She tossed the mail onto the table and went to answer it.

His hands were poked into his pant pockets, elbows awkwardly jutting out. He shifted from one foot to the other before looking up. Her heart raced into her throat, filling her insides with indefinable emotion.

“What do you want?” It came out slightly high-pitched.

Tim tilted his head and shrugged as if the answer was obvious.

“You shouldn’t have come.” She tried to close the door, but he easily pushed past her.

They faced each other, waiting for the other to move, and finally she walked over to the couch. Colors and sounds and lights flashed at her and she covered her eyes with her hands. The cushion shifted beneath her weight, and then he was sitting beside her, staring straight ahead, like they were taking a Sunday drive.

“Why are you here?”

He answered without looking. “I want to see her.”

The sound of his voice caught her offguard, and she hesitated for a moment. “You can’t.”

He shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

He spread his hands on his knees, the calluses on his knuckles white and cracked, his fingernails chewed to the skin, the sight of which reignited her anger.

“You are the one that doesn’t understand.”