Glass Houses

What we see in the fractures

The glass cracked before it shattered. It wasn’t a spiderweb, delicate and sprawling — it was a single line, clean and vicious, splitting the window from corner to corner. Martha stared at it, the world on the other side bending, her reflection halved.

“I told you not to open it.”

The wind pushed in, sharp and damp, rustling the papers on the kitchen table. Unpaid bills, yellowing takeout menus, a Polaroid of the three of them at the lake, his arms around both of them — her and Lila.

“Just needed some air,” she said, but her voice was a dry leaf, crushed underfoot.

The glass was always fragile. The contractor had warned them, years ago, when they’d moved into the house.

He’d said, “Double panes are safer. You get a storm, a stray branch – it’ll hold up.”

But Tom had insisted on single-pane. “I want to see the world exactly as it is,” he’d said, smiling at the horizon like it held something back.

Martha took a step back, crunching glass underfoot. It glittered like ice, catching the light in shards. The floor was cold through her socks, the linoleum sticky in spots.

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

His voice was softer now, a threadbare blanket. She couldn’t look at him, not directly. He’d taken up too much space in the house, his presence creeping into the corners, filling up the cracks.

“I’m fine.”

The photograph was face down now. Lila’s smile pressed against the table, hidden. Martha’s fingers itched to pick it up, to look again at that summer when everything still made sense, when the glass was still whole.

The first crack had been smaller, nearly invisible. A night like any other — dishes drying on the rack, the hum of the fridge a backdrop to the soft drone of the TV. Tom’s hand on her shoulder, not unkind but heavy. She hadn’t meant to flinch.

“You always act like I’m the villain.”

She didn’t respond. Words felt like glass in her mouth, sharp-edged and dangerous. She’d learned to swallow them, to let them sink into her, settling in her gut like stones.

Lila had seen it, even if Martha pretended she hadn’t. Children are like glass, too — clear, fragile, showing every smudge, every crack. She’d found her daughter on the porch that night, knees pulled to her chest, eyes too old for ten years.

“Mom, do you love him?”

The question sat between them, unwelcome. Martha had taken too long to answer. Lila had turned away.

Now, Martha knelt, the glass biting into her skin through the thin cotton of her pants. She picked up the Polaroid, her thumb brushing over Tom’s face, smearing the ink. The lake behind them was a blue smear, endless.

“You can’t stay here.”

Her own voice startled her. She wasn’t sure who she was talking to — Tom, herself, the ghost of the family they used to be.

Tom moved closer, his shadow folding over her. She could smell him — stale coffee, last night’s whiskey. His shoes crunched on the glass, each step a hammer on a nail.

“I’m sorry,” he said, but it was the same old apology, worn thin, threadbare. She could see through it, right to the other side, where nothing had changed.

The lake house had been her grandmother’s. They’d gone there every summer until Lila turned twelve and decided she didn’t want to swim anymore. She’d started reading thick books with sad endings, filling notebooks with poems Martha wasn’t allowed to read. Tom had spent those summers working, coming up on weekends with his laptop and his muted irritation.

“Do you ever miss it?” Lila had asked last spring, her voice soft over the phone, a thousand miles away at college. Martha had closed her eyes, picturing the lake, the way the water rippled in the mornings, a mirror for the sky.

“I do,” she’d said, and Lila had been silent, the kind of silence that asked for more. Martha hadn’t given it.

The glass on the floor made a mosaic. She thought of the stained glass in the church where she’d been married, how the light had filtered through in colors that felt holy. She hadn’t been back there in years, not since Lila’s christening. The windows had been thick, unbreakable.

Tom knelt beside her, his weight pulling her down. His hands hovered, not quite touching. She felt the cold air on her skin, the open window a wound in the room.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said.

Martha let the words hang, suspended. She could see the edge of the world through the broken glass, the trees bending in the wind, the clouds rolling over themselves. There was a storm coming, and the house would not hold.

“Then don’t.”

She stood, the glass a minefield beneath her. Each step was deliberate, a choice. She moved toward the door, her breath sharp and clean in her chest. Tom didn’t follow.

Outside, the air was damp, the sky heavy. She felt the pull of the lake, the water dark and steady. She could drive there, stand on the dock, let the cold settle into her bones.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Lila’s name on the screen, a small, glowing promise. Martha answered, the word “hello” catching on her lips, a thread unspooling.

“Mom?” Lila’s voice was warm, the kind of warm that made you think of blankets, of home.

“Hey, sweetie.”

“You okay?”

She looked back at the house, the open window, the shattered glass. Tom was still kneeling, a statue among the ruins. She thought of the lake, the way the water could swallow sound, how the cold could make you feel brand new.

“Yeah,” she said, the word a stone skipping across the surface. “I think I will be.”