Her voice carried through the house—so loud that Marcus, downstairs setting the dishes on the table, could clearly hear her. He raised an eyebrow but chose to ignore it, assuming she was just nagging their son again.
Amelia frowned, confusion tightening her face. "What on earth is this boy doing? Why isn't he answering?" she muttered under her breath.
A thought crossed her mind. Did he fall asleep? But then she shook her head almost immediately. "No… even if he did, he would've woken up by now. His sleep's never been that deep."
Unable to find a reasonable explanation—and unwilling to let her freshly cooked dinner go cold—she sighed, rolling up her sleeves. "Alright then," she said loudly, half in warning and half in frustration, "Anthony, I'm coming in!"
With that, she grabbed the doorknob, twisted it, and with a soft click, pushed the door open.
Completely oblivious to the forbidden zone her son's room had become—an area that might cost her dearly to cross—Amelia tried the handle again. To her surprise, the door would not open.
She expected a little resistance and then the usual give, but nothing happened. Pulling her hand back from the knob, she muttered, "Huh… what's going on now?" Tilting her head, she tested the handle with a puzzled frown. Strange.
Determined, she placed both hands on the knob and pushed harder, levering her weight against the door.
Still it would not budge—no inch, no creak, nothing. Stunned and speechless that even her full strength did nothing, she tried to make sense of it. Is it stuck again, like last month after the renovation? she thought. She'd suspected the contractors' work then; a month had barely passed and problems were back.
Frustration rose. She stamped her foot, not once considering that the door might be locked—in her mind, the clicking noises she'd heard earlier meant it wasn't locked. The idea of a lock simply hadn't occurred to her.
"What now? What do I do?" she muttered. "This boy—he won't answer, and now the door's stuck." Her fingers tightened into a fist at her side as irritation curled up inside her.
A mischievous thought—bonk Anthony on the head when the door finally opened—flitted into her mind, and she found herself nodding at the idea, half amused, half exasperated.
But as for how to open the door… Amelia thought for a moment before raising her voice.
"Marcus! Hurry up and come up here!" she shouted, deciding that if she couldn't force the door open alone, she'd simply call for reinforcements. With her husband's help—and a little teamwork—they'd definitely get it open. Besides, she was far too lazy to go downstairs just to fetch him herself.
Back in the modest kitchen, Marcus stood beside the circular dining table, which was set with three chairs evenly spaced around it. The table was nearly covered with dishes Amelia had already plated—each one steaming hot, filling the air with a mouthwatering aroma.
As Marcus adjusted a few plates, he couldn't help but swallow hard. Even though meals like this weren't an everyday thing, they weren't exactly rare either—not when your wife was a professional chef. There were definite perks to that.
He could tell Amelia had gone the extra mile tonight. Several of the dishes were Anthony's favorites, and Marcus knew exactly why she'd done that.
He sighed quietly, his expression softening. Yeah… I was too harsh on him today.
He hadn't meant to be, but it had happened anyway. He could see that Anthony was genuinely serious this time—not like before. The boy had been putting in real effort, and as a father, Marcus knew he should've encouraged him instead of letting his frustration speak for him.
Still, he tried to convince himself it wasn't a big deal. He'd been strict before, and Anthony had always bounced back quickly. "It's fine," he muttered under his breath. "He'll get over it. He always does."
He stepped aside from the dining table, glancing once more at the dishes. The comforting smell of dinner hung in the air—but the thought of his son lingered heavier in his mind.
Marcus breathed a quiet, helpless sigh. It's just Amelia making this a big deal, he thought, lowering his voice until even a mosquito's buzz would have sounded loud—he didn't want her to hear and mete out some imagined punishment. He glanced around nervously, checking that no one had overheard him.
Then Amelia's voice rang from upstairs: "Marcus! Hurry up and come upstairs!"
"Huh?" he called back, startled—her tone had been urgent. He hurried up the stairs, his mind already racing with worst-case scenarios. What happened up there? His thoughts rambled into overthinking as he climbed.
He found Amelia at the door to Anthony's room, one hand on the doorknob, the other braced on the frame, pushing with all her might. Her face was flushed from the effort.
"Is the door stuck again?" Marcus asked, forcing calm and trying to tamp down his spiraling thoughts.
"Yes—again," Amelia snapped, stopping her attempts and turning to him. The redness didn't fade; if anything, it hardened into something colder. Marcus felt it like a chill and halted in his tracks. "Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked, trying to read her expression.
"You're wondering why I'm looking at you like this, huh?" she said, jabbing a finger at the door. "Because of you hiring that lousy renovation company—look, the door's stuck again. Their work was rubbish. I told you not to hire them, but you wouldn't listen." She folded her arms, exasperation plain in every line of her face.
Damn it, Marcus thought. Now it's my fault. He wanted to argue—after all, he remembered praising the renovations—but the look on Amelia's face silenced him. He swallowed his retort and tried to steer the moment back to practicalities.
"We can argue about the renovation later," he said instead. "Let's just get the door open."
"Hmph," Amelia muttered. "Go on—push as hard as you can and open this damn door. Be quick, or all my hard work on dinner will go to waste."