My clothes were moved from the master closet to the small bedroom at the end of the hall, the one with the narrow window overlooking the alley.
My favorite armchair disappeared from the living room because Claire said it ruined the visual balance.
By the third year, I had become the quiet old man who cooked, received packages, watered the plants, and stepped aside whenever she was recording.
Her shoes were now on my feet.
Daniel entered the kitchen, buttoning the cuff of a light-colored linen shirt. He was forty-two and unemployed, yet every morning he dressed as if he were about to be called to an important meeting.
He looked at his heels.
Then he looked at me.
A certain distrust appeared on his face.
No worries.
Calculation.
“Dad,” he said, “Claire asked you to do something.”
“I know what she asked.”
“Then why are you making this uncomfortable?”
Claire raised her juice and stared out the window, as if the whole conversation had already bored her.
Daniele approached.
“They’re just a pair of shoes. We stay home most of the day. We have schedules.”
“You haven’t had a project in the last three months.”
The statement wasn’t cruel.
It was simply true.
The truth embarrassed him far more than any insult.
His jaw hardened.
“This has nothing to do with anything.”
“What does that mean?”
“Respect.”
I looked down at my muddy shoes.
“Yes,” I said. “I think that’s the point.”
Claire set her glass down on the counter.
“I’m not going to stand here while he turns this into another emotionally charged argument.”
She walked into the living room, holding her phone at shoulder height. A few seconds later, a soft piano melody wafted from the speaker she used for her videos.
Daniel watched her leave.
Then he turned back to me with the wounded pride of a man who believes his wife just watched him fail an important exam.
“I’ll only say this once,” he said. “You’ll apologize to Claire, polish your shoes, and stop causing tension in this house.”
I looked around the kitchen.
