I walked back into my house on Sunday evening with my father-in-law’s c*m still a ghost between my legs and the black card burning a hole in the bottom of my purse.
My husband was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, stirring something that smelled like the lemon chicken he always made when he felt guilty. He looked up when I stepped inside, smiled the same careful, affectionate smile he’d worn for three years, and came over to kiss my cheek.
“Missed you,” he said. “How’s your sister?”
I let him kiss me.
I even kissed him back.
All I could taste was the memory of his brothers’ c***s and the way his father’s hand had felt around my throat.
“She’s fine,” I answered. My voice sounded almost normal. “Tired from the drive.”
We ate dinner like nothing had changed. He talked about work, abou
