Chapter 6
The days that followed settled into an uneasy, suffocating routine. Ethan slept in the guest room down the hall, citing his need for space to process everything, though Claire knew the distance was a physical manifestation of his wounded pride. They spoke only when necessary, passing each other in the kitchen like polite strangers sharing a boarding house rather than partners raising a newborn child. Ethan threw himself into his work, leaving the house before dawn and returning late in the evening, smelling of drywall dust and stale coffee. Claire spent her hours caring for Leo, the silence of the house pressing down on her like a physical weight. She tried calling her father’s lawyer, Arthur Vance, hoping to find some loophole, some hidden clause that would allow her to transfer the deed into joint names without tax penalties or legal nightmares. But Vance had been unyielding, citing strict confidentiality and the explicit, ironclad wishes of the deceased. "Your father was a complicated man, Mrs. Miller," Vance had told her over the phone. "He believed that assets should stay within the direct bloodline to protect against future uncertainties. It was nothing personal against your husband." But it felt personal. Every creak of the floorboards felt personal. Every meal eaten in silence across the kitchen island felt like a slow erosion of their shared history. On Thursday afternoon, Claire decided she could no longer bear the ghost town their marriage had become. She gently placed Leo in his stroller, bundled him up against the chilly autumn breeze, and walked down to Ethan’s workshop at the back of the property. The detached garage smelled of turpentine, sawdust, and old motor oil—smells that usually grounded her. Ethan was sanding down a wooden crib he had been building for Leo before the argument shattered their peace. The rasp of sandpaper against wood filled the space as he worked with a fierce, rhythmic concentration. Claire stopped in the doorway, the stroller wheels bumping gently over the threshold. Ethan didn't look up immediately, but the slowing of his strokes indicated he knew she was there. He blew the fine dust off the wood with a sharp puff of air, finally raising his red-rimmed eyes to meet hers. "You shouldn't have brought the baby out here," he said, his voice flat. "The dust isn't good for his lungs." "We need to talk, Ethan," Claire said, her voice trembling slightly but carrying a firm resolve. "We can't keep living like ghosts in our own home."
