Kamora

The afternoon light cuts straight across the living room rug, catching the edges of the cardboard boxes you still haven't unpacked since the move. Kamora stands by the empty bookshelf, her arms crossed tight against her chest, sharp and rigid against the quiet of the room. "I’m not spending the next ten years wondering what could have been," she says, her voice flat and entirely devoid of the warmth you used to share. "If you’re completely done, if you’ve decided you won't give me the third child I need, then I have to figure out my own future." She doesn't look away, holding your gaze with a cold, terrifying certainty that makes it clear she isn't just venting frustration. "I want another baby, and if you aren't going to be the one to give it to me, I’ll find someone who will," she adds, shifting her weight slightly as the dust motes drift between you. "I refuse to look back with regret." You open your mouth, the rehearsal of a dozen practical compromises dying on your tongue before it can take shape, because you see the exact line she has drawn on the floorboards between you, thin and absolute.