“Again with this coffee, Talia.”
Grant’s voice came from behind me just as I opened the grinder lid. The beans were already hissing in the machine, releasing that familiar bittersweet scent. I froze with the scoop in my hand.
He leaned over my shoulder, sniffed slightly, and said, “Didn’t I tell you the one in the red bag is better? This one’s too acidic.”
I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I poured the grounds into the French press slowly, watching the dark powder settle at the bottom like silt in a riverbed.
“I like this one,” I said quietly without turning around. “It’s what I prefer.”
He sighed, pulled a mug from the drying rack, held it up to the light, inspecting it like it was some relic.
“We really need to toss these soon. Look at the base. It’s already stained.”
That mug had been a gift from my mom when I first moved into this apartment. I had forgotten it was even stained.
Grant was 35, medium build, perfectly trimmed dark hair, always dressed like he was about to walk into a meeting, even on Sundays. I used to think he looked handsome. Now he just looked precise, predictable.
“It’s just a coffee mug,” I muttered, stirring in sugar, feeling the spoon clink against ceramic.
But the irritation simmered under my ribs. The smallest things always became discussions, arguments disguised as helpful advice.
Two years ago, I would have smiled.
Back then, we were in a conference room of a boutique agency downtown. I was fumbling with the espresso machine when he came up beside me, smiled like a movie character, and said, “Allow me to make coffee for the most beautiful woman in this building.”
It was charming, sincere. He even brought me that red bag coffee the next week. Claimed it was life-changing.
And maybe it was. Maybe that one bag of beans shifted something inside me, nudged me toward the idea that this man could take care of me, that he noticed things, that he’d always pay attention.
But now it felt less like attention and more like surveillance.
“Breakfast?” I asked.
“Yes, please,” he said, setting down his phone. “Just don’t use the olive oil from last night. It smelled a little off.”
I retrieved a fresh bottle from the cupboard, then cracked two eggs into the pan, watching the whites slowly take shape. Grant hovered beside me again.
“Careful with the yolks. You always overcook them. I like them runny, remember?”
I gritted my teeth.
“I know.”
The kitchen filled with silence, the kind that isn’t peaceful, but heavy. Grant scrolled through the news on his phone, occasionally grunting at headlines. I stared at the window above the sink. The trees outside were bare, branches swaying against a slate gray sky.
Winter was close, and so was the wedding.
Six months ago, when we stood in line at the courthouse to file for our marriage license, I remember Grant whispering, “Soon you’ll officially be mine.”
He said it like a promise, like it was something I should feel lucky to become.
“I’m already yours,” I had joked back then.
“Not until you take my name,” he replied.
I’d laughed at the time.
I wasn’t laughing now, because lately, it all felt like a slow signing away of myself. Page by page, clause by clause, without reading the fine print.
“By the way,” he said between bites of toast. “Mom invited us to dinner tonight. She says it’s important.”
My stomach sank.
Important.
“Probably wants to talk wedding plans or grandkids. She’s been on about that lately. She’s turning 62, you know. Wants to see some little feet running around.”
I burned my tongue on the coffee and didn’t even flinch.
Children.
The word had started appearing more and more, like background static slowly becoming a scream.
“How do you feel about that?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It’s time, right? We’re the right age. We’ve got jobs. We’ll get a house soon. Makes sense.”
A child. Not a dream, not a desire, just the next step on the checklist.
“Maybe we could travel first,” I suggested. “Do something spontaneous.”
Grant raised an eyebrow.
“With what money, Talia? We’ve got a wedding to finish paying for. Then we start looking at mortgage options. This is the real world. We’re not 22 anymore.”
My heart beat harder than it should have. Not because he was wrong, but because I couldn’t remember the last time I felt right.
Judith Alden opened the door with a kind of enthusiasm that always felt forced.
“My darlings,” she beamed, lipstick smudged slightly on her teeth. “Come in, come in. I made roast chicken and that butternut squash soup Grant loves.”
Her voice was loud, full of uninvited affection, as if volume equaled warmth. I stepped inside, inhaling the scent of sage and garlic, and immediately felt like a guest in a life someone else had chosen for me.
Grant’s father, Ned, nodded politely from the recliner, holding a glass of tea and wearing the same quiet patience he always wore around his wife. I liked him, though he barely spoke. He had kind eyes.
The living room was crammed with heavy floral furniture, outdated doilies, and a sense that everything in it had been purchased with coupons and stubborn pride.
Judith was already dishing out food before we sat.
“Eat while it’s hot,” she said, piling my plate high. “You need to keep your strength up.”
Her tone dropped just slightly on that last part, and I knew what was coming.
“So,” she said casually, settling into her chair. “When are we going to start planning for grandkids?”
I glanced up from my fork.
“We haven’t really talked specifics yet.”
“Nonsense.” She waved her hand. “You two are perfect candidates. Talia, you’re what? 32 now. And Grant’s 35. It’s time. No sense waiting around until your hips start creaking.”
Grant chuckled lightly.
“Mom.”
“Don’t mom me,” she said, jabbing her finger in the air. “You were asking for a baby brother when you were six. I’ve waited long enough. Besides, it’s not like you don’t have a plan. You always have a plan.”
She looked at me with a smirk.
“Grant’s always been good at seeing the big picture.”
I put down my fork.
“Maybe we could start with one and see how it goes.”
“One?” she laughed. “You’ll change your mind once you hold that first one. You’ll want a whole basketball team.”
Ned, still sipping his tea, looked at his wife.
“Maybe we should let them decide on their own. We didn’t have Grant right away either.”