The house felt hollow without the children’s voices, the kind of quiet that settled like a held breath once their grandparents had collected them for the weekend. She kicked off her heels by the door, shoulders still tight from the endless meetings, while he poured the first glasses of red at the counter, the bottle sweating faintly in the low light. They clinked without ceremony, the wine sliding warm down their throats as they traded the day’s small frustrations in low voices, the ordinary rhythm of two people who had learned each other’s silences years ago.