"I don't care," she said, her voice shaking. "I'll go somewhere else, and you can make your own decision. I know you're not good at that, you're much better at making *squee!*ing important choices on behalf of other people, but you'll just have to *squee!*ing manage."
"It's not enough," she replied, her voice sharp. "I don't trust my husband anymore. You can't apologize for *squee!* like that."
"Yeah, well, I don't either. I never thought you would do something like this. I don't know why I'm stupid enough to keep believing that you won't pull *squee!* like this again. You *squee!*ed up, Francis. You *squee!*ed up. I'm done." She slammed the door behind her.
The house was dark and quiet the night Francis arrived. Rain pattered on the roof, and the inside of the house was warm, but silent.
There was a silence, and the door opened about a minute later. Poppy was holding a sleeping James to her chest. When she saw him, she frowned, holding James almost for comfort, her free hand on the door as if she were about to close it.
The house hadn't changed. Poppy was in James' room, singing quietly to him as she set him down in the crib.
He crossed his arms uncomfortably, staying by the door. Despite having memories in this house, he never felt so unwelcomed.
"Is it just going to be like this? Are we never going to talk again? Am I not going to see the kids?"
