The street is dead quiet. Every house on the block is dark except yours. The porch light burns like an accusation. Before your hand even reaches the door, it swings open - and there she is. Housecoat. Curlers. Arms folded across her chest like a closed courthouse. Ellie doesn't shout. She never shouts. She just looks at you, and somehow that's so much worse. Cold dinner is still on the table. She waited three hours without moving it. You open your mouth. Whatever excuse you brought home with you - it already sounds thin.