Michael excuses himself to go get some work done as soon as they have finished they are eating that night. It isn't unusual for him to do so, especially on his first day back at the office after a few days away. Except he was so quiet during dinner. And he doesn't emerge from his study in time to help Sydney draw the children's baths and put them to bed, something he always does.

"Where's Daddy?" Emily asks with a frown as Sydney helps her into her pajamas-- ones decorated with hearts, this time, instead of fishies.

"He's getting some work done, darling. He missed two days while we were in California."

"I want to say goodnight to Daddy!"

Sydney sighs. "All right, sweetheart. We'll go down to his study, but only for a minute, all right? Daddy's busy."

The words are no sooner out of her mouth than Emily is down the stairs like a shot, hurtling through the door of Michael's study.

"Princess!" Michael exclaims, surprised, as the pajama-clad, wet-haired little girl scurries onto his lap.

"Sorry to interrupt, baby," Sydney says with a slight smile. "She wanted to say goodnight."

"I didn't realize it was so late," Michael says, glancing at his watch.

"What are you working on, Daddy?"

"Just a case, sweetheart," Michael tells his daughter, smoothing a hand over her hair. "One big company's suing another one."

"What does suing mean?"

Sydney watches as her husband describes the legal term in such a way that a girl of not quite four can understand, and it occurs to her that in another lifetime, Michael would have made a good teacher. She sees a flash of herself and Michael, heading off to school together, coming home to a smaller house than the one they have now, grading papers and planning lessons while their children play around them.

It's a nice vision. But not really preferable to the life they are living now. She'd enjoyed teaching once, but she hadn't necessarily loved it, and while she'd thought long and hard before giving it up, when it had come down to it, the decision to quit hadn't really been that difficult, and she's never really regretted it. She has thought about going back to work once the kids are older, but to be honest, she isn't 100 sure what she'll do. She's tossed around the ideas of getting another job teaching high school, or of getting her Master's and teaching a few college courses, but she has no definite plan for restarting her career.

Maybe I'll never work again, she thinks to herself now. Wouldn't my father love that?

"Come on, Emily," she tells her daughter. "Let's get you to bed."

"Okay." Emily plants a kiss on her father's cheek. "Goodnight, Daddy. I love you."

"I love you, too, sweetheart."

Emily darts out of the room ahead of Sydney, and Sydney pauses in the doorway. "Are you almost finished, baby?"

Michael smiles weakly. "I've got a lot to catch up on, honey. Don't wait for me to go to bed."

"Okay." There is nothing that strange about this situation, not really. But something feels off to Sydney. "Goodnight. I love you."

"Love you, too."

The next night, Michael comes home a bit later than usual without calling, and Sydney is right there with Emily to greet him at the door. "Why didn't you call?" she demands. "I was worried."

"I'm sorry, baby," he apologizes. "My meeting ran late."

"It's not like you not to call," Sydney insists.

"I'm sorry," he says, a bit irritably. "What else do you want me to say?"

She glares at him. "I hope you like frozen pizza," she snaps. "Your dinner's ruined."

He apologizes later, and of course she accepts, because really, it's not that big of a deal, just like his staying in his study until the wee hours of the morning the night before wasn't that big of a deal. But something is off, and she isn't sure what to do about it. Is this really how he's going to deal with her father's accusations? By distancing himself from her-- in essence, becoming the man her father thinks he is?

He has dinner with a client Thursday night, something that he does fairly often; this particular dinner meeting has been planned for a couple of weeks. With the way things have been the past few days, though, Sydney doesn't particularly appreciate the time alone. She goes to bed early, soon after she puts the kids down, and thrashes restlessly while unpleasant pictures flash through her mind.

She pictures herself in the kitchen, animatedly telling Michael about something Emily did that day. Only he doesn't smile, doesn't laugh, doesn't sweep their daughter into his arms and tease her. He only nods, a blank look in his eyes, and tells her he doesn't feel like dinner, that he has a lot of work to do.

She pictures herself at one of Michael's parties, as beautiful and perfect as ever. But he doesn't tell her how amazing she looks, doesn't whisper in her ear that he can't wait to get her home and do ungodly things to her. Instead, he interacts with her solemnly, humorlessly, and when they go home that night, they don't kiss until their lungs ache, don't tear each other's clothes off as soon as they are in the privacy of their bedroom. She puts on a satiny nightgown and arranges herself on the bed seductively. He doesn't even notice.

She has never found her life unfulfilling, but God, she realizes that it could be, if Michael were different.

She pictures him with another woman, a younger woman, a woman who truly is a trophy in every sense of the word, a woman whose happiness Michael doesn't care about at all, a woman whose true purpose is to serve him and obey his every whim, and who derives no pleasure from doing things that make him happy.

She pictures herself with another man, a man who pampers her and spoils her and gives her every material thing she could ever want but doesn't love her.

And before she knows it, she is lying in bed sobbing, deep, shattering sobs that leave her breathless, the kind she hasn't cried since she was a little girl. And all of a sudden Michael is there, panicked at seeing her like this, climbing into bed with her with his clothes and shoes still on, holding her. "Shh, baby, don't cry, please don't cry, I can't stand it when you cry," he croons, rocking her back and forth as if she is a small child. She finally quiets down, and he continues rocking her, soothing her, placing tender kisses on the top of her head. "Syd, honey, what's wrong?" he whispers. "What's got you so upset?"

"Michael, I--"

She can't find the words. Doesn't know what to say. Because nothing is wrong, not really, not yet. He worked too late one night. Forgot to call the next. Behaved a little distantly towards her for a few days. None of those things are a big deal, not really.

But she is seeing things when she is awake that are scarier and more real than any of the nightmares she has ever had. And she's terrified.