The twilight deepens, and the first stars begin to peek through the darkening sky. The air cools, brushing against my skin with a faint chill, and I fold my arms across my chest instinctively. I feel my stomach drop, but she continues, her voice steady. “I know you’re struggling, and I know it’s hard when it feels like you’re the only one trying. But God calls us to be patient, to endure, and to submit to our husbands as unto the Lord. Have you thought about how you can serve Chase better? How you can love him more deeply, even when it’s difficult?”
She pauses, searching my face, and I’m too stunned to respond.
“Sometimes, when we feel like our efforts aren’t enough, it’s because we’re focusing too much on ourselves and not enough on God’s will for our marriage. Maybe instead of focusing on your happiness, you should be asking how you can bring glory to God in your marriage. Pray for Chase, Tori. Pray for his heart to soften, for his burdens to be lifted. And pray for your own heart, that you might find joy in serving him, even when it’s hard.”
The words feel like stones being stacked on my chest, each one heavier than the last. I can feel the tears welling up, but I fight them back, not wanting her to see how much her words are cutting me. She squeezes my hand, mistaking my silence for agreement.The shadows of the trees stretch further across the porch as the last light fades from the sky, and I feel enveloped by the growing darkness.
“Remember, dear, we can’t control other people’s actions, but we can control our own. Focus on being the best wife you can be, and trust God to do the rest. The Lord never gives us more than we can handle, and He will use this trial to strengthen your faith and refine you into the woman He wants you to be.”
Does the Bible really say that? I’m fairly certain the whole “God never gives you more than you can handle” line is utter bullshit, twisted into some kind of inspirational platitude people use to justify suffering.
She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. The faint scent of her lavender lotion drifts toward me, a nostalgic but suffocating reminder of childhood comfort. “And sometimes, Tori, the enemy will use these feelings of discontent to try to pull you away from God’s plan. Don’t let him win. Fight for your marriage with prayer and humility. God honors those who remain faithful, even when it’s hard.”
The porch light flickers to life above us, casting a harsh, yellow glow that feels stark and unwelcome against the gentle fading colors of the sky. I nod mechanically, my mind spinning with everything she’s just said. The weight on my shoulders feels heavier than ever, and I can’t help but wonder if this is really what God wants for me—to be trapped in a marriage that drains the life out of me, with no hope of change.
A light breeze picks up, rustling the trees and sending a shiver through me. The night smells fresh, but it’s cold and uninviting, a sharp contrast to the warmth I once found here.
And what about what I want? I’m tired of being trampled on all the time. Tired of reading and studying and serving and submitting. Tired of deferring and staying silent to keep the peace. Tired of being no one, when I know that I’m someone. Tired of being praised at work for a job well done, only to come home and feel theopposite. I can’t share my victories with him. I can’t share my heart with him. Fucking hell, I can barely share my body with him. Not that he cares what I want. As long as he comes, all is well in Chase land.
Until it happens again. The negative pregnancy tests. They always happen. Every. Single. Month. For the past seven years.
I don’t know why I still take them. I know what they’ll say. But Chase insists. He wants to see the evidence that once again he has failed to impregnate me.
I don’t know why he does this emotional self-flagellation. It doesn’t help anything. I’ve tried to help him focus on our marriage, on our relationship. To stop worrying so much about what we don’t have and instead celebrate what we do. It doesn’t matter.
He can’t hear me—or he won’t, rather.
The cicadas’ hum swells around us, their unrelenting rhythm amplifying the silence between me and Mom. But I keep those thoughts to myself, forcing a weak smile as Mom gives my hand one last squeeze. This is not at all how I had hoped this conversation would play out. Instead of feeling safe and seen by the one person on this planet who loves me unconditionally, it’s as if my feelings don’t matter to her, to God, to anyone, really.
The mountains, now nothing more than blackened silhouettes etched against the star-speckled sky, seem to mock me with their stoic majesty—unyielding and indifferent, just like my marriage. They stand as silent witnesses to the dreams I once had of a happy life with the man I thought I loved, dreams now twisted into something hollow and cruel. The chill deepens, sinking into my skin, and the wooden slats beneath me grow harder, less forgiving, as though everything around me is conspiring to remind me of how far I’ve fallen.
Are you there, God? It’s me, Victoria.Do you care, God? About anyone other than yourself and your fucking rules? Is this what your will is for my life? Suffering and oppression in amarriage to a man who is too selfish and broken to see anything beyond his own pain?
Fuck that. And fuck you. And fuck your rules. And fuck your holiness. And fuck my mother. And fuck Chase. And fuck infertility.
Fuck it all.
ELEVEN
TORI
I never thoughtmy life would look like this.
My hand hovers over the doorknob like touching it will detonate something. I’m dressed, handbag slung over my elbow, blouse buttoned, slacks on, feet in pumps. Pumps. I’m wearing fuckingpumps.
Not sexy stiletto pumps, but the short, stocky ones. Like my mom would wear to church. They aren’t even black. They are gray. Dark gray, but still. Gray.
Should I change? I should change.
Maybe that’s why I can’t open the door and leave. Because I need to change.
I don’t have time to change my outfit. I’m going to be late, but my body refuses to take one more step and actually turn the knob andopenthe door.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph what the ever lovingfuckam I doing?
Divorce attorney. Jacob—what was his last name again? Something strong, something that sounds like it belongs on a campaign sign or stamped across a courthouse door. A name people take seriously. Finegan? That’s not it. Because then I’d keep sayingFinegan Begin Againin my head. Okay, so it’s not Finegan.
Sterling. That’s it.Jacob Sterling, Esq.I should feel better knowing that, but I don’t.
