Sawyer tried console himself as he looked around his home. Scattered all around were leaves, twigs, and damp sand. Avoiding his eyes, his wife swept the trash away, mumbling to herself as she did so.
She was too afraid of saying anything that’d ruffle him. He’d had a rough time as it is, and coming from her, even the undeniable truth would only irritate him further.
Unable to bear the ringing silence, “I’m so sorry!” he cried breaking down. “I thought it was time.”
His wife sighed in silence. “Maybe it’s a rite of passage to farming. Cultivating premature crop.”
One thought on “Rite of passage”