The first year of marriage felt like an early dawn off the California coast. Guest and Tom were madly in love. On Saturdays, they went to the cinema for a late-night showing, always a horror movie, made silly faces while taking pictures with a point-and-shoot camera, and bought books in vintage stores. He gave Guest peonies on Mondays so that the day wouldn't seem too bad. She often drew for Tom, expressing her feelings.

When their first child, Sam, was born, they stuck to their little traditions. Of course, it didn't always work out. And when Millie was born two years later, everything went downhill. They barely spoke, slept with their backs to each other, and lately, they slept separately altogether. Tom tried to help somehow, but it was still hard. They no longer took photos together, dined separately. They lived like neighbors, not a happy couple.

Around six in the morning, when soft sunlight filled the apartment, Guest stood in the kitchen at the stove in her nightgown, making breakfast. Kids were still asleep. Some more time of silence for thoughts. Tom quietly entered the kitchen. She only realized it when her ears hit the sound of coffeemaching gurgling. But none of them dared to talk first.