By the time Obinna got home, the house was quiet.

Not the peaceful quiet of contentment, but the hollow quiet that follows disappointment. The kind of silence that pressed against the walls and made the air feel thicker.

The banner was still taped above the dining archway HAPPY BIRTHDAY NKIRU in pink letters decorated with hand-drawn butterflies. One corner had peeled away from the wall, curling downward like a gesture of surrender. Ifunanya had hung it two days ago, standing on a chair while Nkiru jumped excitedly below, already counting down the hours until her special day.

A paper plate sat on the table, covered loosely with aluminum foil. Through the creased foil, he could see smears of pink frosting, strawberry, Nkiru's favorite. The plate looked small and sad in the empty room.

Obinna stood in the doorway for a moment, his work bag heavy on his shoulder. He could hear the television playing softly in the living room a late-night news program, the anchor's voice carefully modulated. Through the archway, he could see the edge of the couch, the glow of the screen casting shifting shadows.

He dropped his backpack by the door before stepping fully into the living room. The sound made Ifunanya look up.

She was sitting on the couch in her house clothes, an old wrapper and one of his faded t-shirts that had become hers through the quiet osmosis of marriage. Her natural hair was pulled into a simple ponytail. No makeup. No adornment. Just tired. The television was on low, more for company than entertainment.

"You're late again," she said. Not accusatory. Just stating fact. The way you might observe that it was raining or that the power had gone out.

"There was traffic." The lie came easily. Too easily. He'd practiced it on the walk from the construction site, refined it on the keke ride home, polished it until it sounded believable even to himself.

She studied him for a second, her eyes moving across his face with the familiarity of six years of marriage. Looking for something. Always looking. She'd been looking more often lately, he'd noticed. Searching his expressions for whatever truth he was keeping from her.

Then she nodded, accepting the explanation or choosing not to challenge it. "She waited. Until nine o'clock."

The words landed heavier than they should have. Simple words. But weighted with everything unsaid: Your daughter waited. Your six-year-old daughter stayed awake past her bedtime, watching the door, believing you'd come. Believing your promises meant something.

He glanced toward the hallway where the bedrooms were. The door to Nkiru's room was closed, a faint nightlight glow visible beneath it. "Is she asleep?"

"She cried first." Ifunanya's voice remained level, but there was an edge underneath. Not anger. Something worse, disappointment so familiar it had worn smooth. "Then she slept. She wanted to wait longer, but I told her you probably got held up at work. That you'd see her in the morning."

Making excuses for him. Protecting their daughter from the truth that her father had chosen to miss her birthday celebration. Again. Just like last year when he'd promised to take her to the park and ended up working late. Just like her school play when he'd sworn he'd be there and arrived after it ended.

Patterns. They were creating patterns their daughter would remember.

Obinna walked to the dining table and lifted the foil carefully. The cake had been cut unevenly, someone had tried to salvage the presentation after the first slice went wrong, attempting to straighten the remaining portions. Strawberry cake with pink buttercream frosting. Nkiru's name spelled out in white icing, slightly smudged. The candles, five plus one for luck had been removed, leaving small waxy circles where they'd stood.

He could imagine it: Nkiru sitting at this table, staring at the door. Ifunanya trying to keep her distracted, suggesting they wait just a little longer. The moment when they finally gave up and sang without him. His daughter blowing out candles alone while making a wish that probably involved him coming home.

"She asked if you were coming," Ifunanya added, still on the couch but watching him now. "Multiple times. 'Is Daddy on his way? Did he say when? Should we wait five more minutes?' I ran out of answers."

Obinna pressed the foil back into place, his fingers careful not to disturb the frosting further. "The supervisor needed me to stay. It couldn't be moved. There was a structural issue that had to be resolved before tomorrow's inspection."

More lies. Easier lies. The kind that sounded legitimate because they contained technical details.

"I didn't ask you to move it," Ifunanya said quietly.

The statement hung in the air between them.

He straightened, turning to face her. "Work doesn't pause because it's convenient."

"I know that." Her voice remained calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that came from years of swallowing disappointment until it no longer surprised you. "I've never asked you to choose between work and family. I've never been that wife."

But maybe I should have been, the silence after her words suggested.

The television continued its quiet murmur something about government policy changes, inflation rates, the usual litany of problems that affected everyone but felt distant when your own life was falling apart in small, quiet ways.

She rose from the couch and came closer. Not confrontational Ifunanya had never been the type to fight loudly or dramatically. Just near enough that he could smell her body lotion, the cocoa butter she applied religiously every night. The scent was so familiar it was almost invisible, part of the architecture of their life together.

"Are you sure everything is alright at work?" she asked, her eyes searching his face again.

"It's fine."

But even as he said it, he could hear how hollow it sounded. How unconvincing.

She waited, giving him space to elaborate. To tell the truth. To admit whatever was pulling him away from them.

He said nothing.

She tried again, her voice softer now. "Obinna. If something is wrong, if there's a problem I should know about, you can tell me. We're supposed to be partners. We're supposed to handle things together."

"It's handled," he said, the words coming out sharper than intended.

He exhaled through his nose, trying to soften his tone. "Nothing is wrong. It's just... January. You know how January is. Everyone needs money. Everyone has pressure. The site is behind schedule and the contractor is breathing down our necks. It's just stress. Normal stress."

Her eyes moved across his face again, cataloging details he couldn't control: the way his jaw tensed when he lied, the way he couldn't quite hold her gaze for more than a few seconds, the defensive set of his shoulders.

She was reading him. Had always been able to read him. That was the problem with marrying someone who actually knew you, they recognized when you started becoming a stranger.

"If something is wrong," she repeated, even quieter now, "you can tell me."

The repetition was a lifeline. One last chance to be honest. To pull back from whatever edge he was approaching.

"It's handled," he said again.

Another pause. Longer this time.

She nodded once not relief, not acceptance. Just a small, contained acknowledgment that she'd offered and he'd refused. That she'd extended trust and he'd kept his secrets. A nod that said: I see you closing yourself off. I see you choosing distance. And I'm noting it.

"I'll pack some cake for Nkiru to take to school tomorrow," she said finally, her voice returning to practical matters. The retreat into functionality that kept marriages alive even when they were dying. "So she can share with her friends. Maybe that will make up for..." She didn't finish the sentence.

For you missing her birthday. For your promises meaning nothing. For her learning that the people who love you can still disappoint you.

He stepped aside so she could pass.

She moved toward the kitchen without touching him. No goodnight kiss. No hand on his arm. Just the careful distance of two people sharing space but no longer truly inhabiting the same world.

---

Later, in the bedroom, he changed without speaking.

The room was familiar in the way long-term homes became familiar every object in its designated place, every surface carrying the patina of years. The bed they'd bought when Nkiru was born, promising each other they'd upgrade someday when money wasn't so tight. The dresser that had been Ifunanya's grandmother's, its mirror slightly warped. The wedding photo on the wall, both of them younger and so impossibly hopeful.

He unbuttoned his work shirt slowly, each button a small meditation. Hung it on the back of the chair where he always hung it. Changed into the shorts and t-shirt he slept in.

Ifunanya was already in bed, propped up on pillows, phone in hand. Scrolling through something probably the family WhatsApp group where her sisters shared photos and advice and gentle judgment about each other's choices.

"Do you want dinner?" she asked without looking up. "I kept rice for you."

"I ate already."

Another lie. He hadn't eaten since lunch, the food Chiamaka had served him. His stomach was empty, but the thought of sitting at their dining table, eating food his wife had prepared while he thought about another woman, felt like a betrayal too explicit to commit.

She didn't question it. Didn't ask what he'd eaten or where. Just nodded and returned to her phone.

The silence between them stretched. Not hostile. Just... hollow. The kind of silence that happened when two people had run out of things to say that wouldn't lead to arguments neither had the energy for.

When she turned off her bedside lamp, she rolled to face the wall.

Her back to him. Small rejection. Unconscious or deliberate, he couldn't tell anymore.

Obinna lay in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the house settling. The neighbor's generator running. A dog barking in the distance. Nkiru's soft breathing from the room next door, audible through the thin walls.

The sounds of his life. The life he'd built. The life he'd promised to protect and provide for.

So why did it feel like a cage?

He waited until Ifunanya's breathing steadied and deepened, the particular rhythm he recognized after six years of sleeping beside her. The rhythm that meant she'd actually fallen asleep, not just pretending while her mind spun through worries and calculations.

Then he got up quietly, careful not to disturb the mattress too much.

---

In the bathroom, the fluorescent light was harsh. It flattened everything, bleached out nuance, made the small space feel clinical. Institutional. Like a place where truths got exposed whether you wanted them to or not.

He leaned both hands on the sink and looked at himself in the mirror above it.

There was nothing visibly different. Same face he'd been wearing for thirty-four years. Same jawline that needed shaving. Same crease between his brows that had deepened over the past few years, carved there by stress and responsibility and the constant weight of not being enough.

But he looked at his eyes and saw something that hadn't been there before. Or maybe it had always been there and he was only now willing to see it: Dissatisfaction. Restlessness. The look of a man who'd followed all the rules, married young, had a child, worked hard, provided faithfully and discovered that following the rules didn't guarantee happiness.

That doing everything right could still leave you feeling empty.

He replayed the afternoon without meaning to. The scene at the stall playing in his mind like a film he couldn't turn off.

He straightened suddenly, his hands gripping the edge of the sink harder.

"This will pass," he muttered under his breath. Speaking to his reflection. Trying to convince himself. "It's just... stress. Distraction. It doesn't mean anything. It will pass."

The words sounded hollow even in the small bathroom.

He ran the tap, let cold water pool in his cupped palms, splashed his face once, twice. The shock of it was brief and useless. When he looked up again, his face was just wet. Not transformed. Not absolved.

He washed his hands slowly, thoroughly, though they were already clean. Scrubbing between his fingers. Under his nails. As if he could wash away intention. As if soap and water could cleanse what was happening inside him.

When he looked up again, his expression had settled into something neutral. Controlled. The face he wore at work. The face he wore when lying to his wife. The face that said nothing was wrong even when everything was.

He turned off the light and went back to bed, moving carefully through the dark bedroom.

Ifunanya didn't stir. Or pretended not to.

He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling he couldn't see. Beside him, his wife breathed steadily. In the next room, his daughter dreamed whatever six-year-olds dreamed probably about the bicycle he still hadn't bought her, the one he'd promised three weeks ago and kept postponing.

His family. His responsibility. His life.

The life he should want more than anything.

So why was he lying here thinking about a woman at a food stall? A woman he barely knew. A woman who represented nothing except escape from everything he'd built.

This will pass, he told himself again.