Maeve put away the gifts and looked up at Byron. "Mr. McDaniel, where do you want to keep these...?"

"Throw them away," Byron said coldly. Without looking at her, he walked to the master bedroom.

Maeve was stunned by his sudden coldness. She stood rooted to the spot, wondering why he was angry. It didn't seem to be the gifts; his coldness felt directed at her, though she hadn't done anything to provoke him. She pursed her lips, noting Byron's volatility, and wondered if he'd still do the dishes.

Byron was trustworthy; he'd promised to help with the housework. Despite his cold expression, he went to the sink after dinner. Maeve went to the balcony to check her vegetables. Soon, she heard a clang from the kitchen—another shattered plate.

She took a deep breath, wanting to investigate, but remembering his coldness at the dinner table, she felt depressed. "Forget it," she thought, poking at a leak in her plants, disappointment filling her eyes. She disliked this feeling and wondered if he'd still accompany her home on Saturday.

Maeve decided Byron wouldn't break his promise. He'd kept all his previous promises, even resuming their daily drinks after his hospital discharge. This gave her the illusion of a real marriage, though she knew it was impossible.

Saturday arrived. The previous day, Maeve had messaged Byron to confirm his dinner plans with her and her parents. He replied late, with a single word: "[Yes]"

Maeve sighed in relief. He remembered. She set a meeting time for ten o'clock the next morning, aiming to arrive at her parents' house by eleven, in time for lunch. This time, Byron didn't reply.

She only received a reply before bed: She got out of bed and sent Byron a message: "[By the way, should I buy gifts for you to bring over tomorrow? That way, it will look more formal and impress my parents?] Byron: [You can handle it yourself. I'm very busy.]"

Sensing impatience, Maeve's hope dimmed. Going home to see her parents had created a false sense of normalcy, now shattered by Byron's response.

Mae hugged her phone, feeling melancholic. Yet, the thought of tomorrow brought a flicker of anticipation. At least, it would have a conclusion.

The next morning, Maeve bought fruit and gifts. She returned to the apartment around ten o'clock. She messaged Byron to see if he was still at work; she'd knocked on his bedroom door without a response, guessing he hadn't returned since the night before. After half an hour, there was still no reply.

She tried calling, but got no answer. It was 10:30. After more waiting, she couldn't reach him and messaged that she'd go ahead; he could join later.

The Reese family home was far from the city center, near the suburbs—a house left by Maeve's grandparents. Scott, her father, was sentimental; even with his later wealth, he remained there.

When Maeve arrived, it was nearly noon. Scott was cooking, Valda assisting. This level of familial care stunned Maeve; it was the treatment usually reserved for her younger brother, Horace.

Valda smiled, "Maeve, you're back! Your father's signature dish is almost ready. Go wash your hands."

"Is there anything I can help with?" Maeve offered.

"No need," Valda said, ushering her away. "Everything's ready." She looked behind Maeve, then asked, "Where's your husband? Didn't he come with you?"

"He's still at work. He'll come later," Maeve replied, a little reserved.

Valda and Scott exchanged glances but said nothing, smiling and pushing Maeve out of the kitchen. As Maeve left, Valda quietly said to Scott, "It's strange her husband didn't come with her."

Scott, busy cooking, looked impatient. "Why do you care? We'll know if he comes later. If not, we'll tell Mr. Graves."

Valda nodded. "I'll listen to you."

Unaware of this conversation, Maeve went to the dining room and tried calling Byron, worried about interrupting his work, and instead sent a message asking his location. There was no reply.

Soon, lunch was ready—a sumptuous spread, as if for a celebration. Scott and Valda were enthusiastic, leaving Maeve feeling unsettled, despite her mental preparations. Her parents seemed to have genuinely moved on.

However, they asked about Byron.

"Maeve, is your husband usually this busy? Even as a driver, why no time to accompany his wife home for a meal on the weekend?" Scott asked, frowning over his wine.

Valda checked the time. "It's almost one o'clock. Looks like he won't get to eat your father's cooking."

Maeve tightened her grip on her fork, forcing a smile. "He's ambitious and works overtime; he doesn't get much rest."

"When is he coming?" Scott pressed.

Maeve fell silent.

Valda smiled. "Forget it. If he said he'd come, he will, right? Let's wait and eat."

Maeve nodded, suppressing her sadness. She preferred believing he was too busy rather than that he'd broken his promise. This thought eased her.

After lunch, Maeve helped clean. Valda took out a medicine box.

"Mom, what's this? Are you unwell?" Maeve asked quickly.

Valda sighed. "I'm old. My body aches on rainy days, especially my knees and arms. I'm using traditional medicine."

Maeve bit her lip, unsure what to say. Their conversations usually revolved around money.

"As long as you and Horace are fine, I'm happy. If you're free, come back and visit," Valda said, looking at Maeve expectantly.

A strange feeling flickered in Maeve's heart, but she didn't dwell on it. "I will," she agreed.