Neither of us moved.
For a moment, all I heard was the rain.
Then a voice spoke.
“Richard?”
Eleanor.
Her voice sounded surprised.
Not concerned.
Surprised.
I slowly stood up, keeping one arm around Maya.
My wife stood in the doorway wearing an elegant black dress, diamonds around her neck, and a perfect smile that disappeared the second she saw my face.
“What are you doing home?”
It was the first thing she asked.
Not:
“Is Maya okay?”
Not:
“Why is she on the floor?”
Not:
“Richard, what happened?”
Just:
What are you doing home?
“I could ask you the same question,” I replied.
Her eyes moved toward Maya.
For a brief second, something flashed across Eleanor’s face.
Fear.
Then it disappeared.
“Oh, Richard, this isn’t what it looks like.”
I almost laughed.
A phrase people use when they know exactly what something looks like.
“Maya,” Eleanor said softly, forcing a gentle expression. “Sweetheart, why didn’t you tell your father you wanted dinner?”
My daughter immediately grabbed my hand tighter.
“She didn’t want dinner,” I said.
My voice was calm.
Too calm.
“She was hungry.”
Eleanor sighed.