It’s the morning of the inspection, and I’m up early, attempting to tidy up the kitchen. The cluttered countertops speak volumes of our hectic lives, and I do my best to make the place look presentable. My wife is in the bedroom, getting the kids ready for school, and the tension between us is palpable, even through walls.
She enters the kitchen, her expression guarded, and I offer a small smile, hoping to ease the strain.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I say, though I don’t quite believe it myself.
She nods, her eyes scanning the room, as if trying to detect any sign of the rat’s presence.
The landlord is due any minute now, and the silence stretches between us, heavy and unyielding.
“Did you set more traps?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah, I did,” I reply, unsure if it will make any difference.
Our conversation is interrupted by a knock at the door. The landlord has arrived, and our shared unease becomes more pronounced, like a third presence in the room.
He steps inside, his eyes immediately surveying the apartment. There’s an air of authority about him, and I feel small under his gaze, as if the entire place is a reflection of my own inadequacies.
“Everything looking good here?” he asks, his voice casual yet laced with underlying judgment.
We nod in unison, and I wonder if he can sense the tension hanging in the air.
As he conducts his inspection, I find myself holding my breath, hoping that he won’t notice the signs of our struggles, the cracks in our facade.
My wife stands beside me, her hand brushing mine, a silent gesture of solidarity that momentarily eases the weight of our shared burden.
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