Everything happened so quickly the day of Oliver's eleventh birthday. Antonin was a perfectionist. Nothing was ever good enough, a fact that he appeared to take great pleasure in informing his wife. Enough time passed that she couldn't even remember what he was upset about. No doubt it was something meaningless and unimportant. Frustrated that he was whispering his criticisms in her ear with all of their guests in the same room, she didn't even bother to discreetly exit to the kitchen. She made it to the kitchen sink before he was steps behind her, his exit much less dramatic than hers.