My father answered, his voice clearer now, like he’d taken the phone out again but still believed the call had ended. “Just Emma. Complaining about something in the house again.”
My finger hovered over the red button. I should have hung up. Any reasonable person would have.
But something in my chest tightened, the same instinct that used to keep me very still as a kid when my parents argued in the kitchen. If I stayed quiet, I could hear what was really happening.
“What now?” my mother asked.
“Sink leaking. Like that house is some kind of endless problem.”
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