He boiled a pan of water on the hob.
At first, I didn’t think anything of it. I assumed he was making tea, or maybe pasta—something normal, something harmless. But then he just stood there, watching the water, waiting.
And then he started speaking.
“You have to stop upsetting me.”
His voice was low, steady. Not shouting, not angry—just matter-of-fact, like he was explaining something simple. Like he was giving me a chance to fix things.
I asked him what I had done, but he didn’t answer. Just kept repeating it.
“You have to stop upsetting me.”
Over and over again.
But he wouldn’t say how. Wouldn’t tell me what I had done.
Then he called the dog over.
My stomach clenched as the dog trotted in, tail wagging, unaware. Happy. Trusting.
And then he reached down, grabbed its collar, and held it near the steaming pan of water.
“You have to stop upsetting me.”
His grip was firm. The dog wriggled slightly but didn’t resist, didn’t understand what was happening. I did.
I couldn’t breathe.
I stepped forward, hands raised, desperate to stop whatever was coming next. “Okay! Okay, I will! Just—just let him go.”
But I couldn’t.
I couldn’t stop upsetting him.
Because I didn’t even know what I had done wrong.
