“No need,” he said, with a casual shrug. “You’re home now. We agreed.”
But we hadn’t. Not really. He made it sound like a mutual decision, but it had always been his suggestion, spoken in a tone too firm to question. I’d said yes because I loved him. Because I thought sacrifices were just part of the story. I took on freelance work anyway.
A woman sitting at a desk and using her laptop | Source: Midjourney
But this didn’t feel like a sacrifice anymore. It felt like servitude.
Who had I married? I thought to myself every day.
Still, I stayed. I convinced myself that it was a rough patch, that he was under pressure at work, that we were adjusting to marriage. I told myself I was lucky. I tried to remember the man I married…
The one who brought me soup and held my hand in the dark. But all I could see was the outline of that man, faded and hollow.
A smiling man with a bowl of soup | Source: Midjourney
And then came his 35th birthday.
The house was full of our family and friends. Laughter echoed off the walls, glasses clinked together, and voices overlapped in happy chaos. His cousins clustered near the stereo, already picking the next playlist.
His parents sat comfortably on the couch, sipping wine. My mom and dad were near the window, quietly observing the room the way they always did, with soft smiles and thoughtful glances.
A black and gold birthday party setup | Source: Midjourney
It looked like a celebration. It sounded like one. And for a fleeting second, I let myself believe that maybe the night would stay light and happy.
I was in the kitchen, rearranging the appetizer tray I’d prepped hours earlier. I’d had a full day in the kitchen making mini spinach puffs, crab-stuffed mushrooms, and skewered caprese bites. It was the kind of spread that required planning, patience, and timing.
I adjusted a garnish, took a breath, and balanced the platter in my hands. As I stepped into the living room, warmth still clinging to my smile, Aidan’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
