He isn’t crying because he’s sad. He’s crying because he’s frustrated, because he’s losing, because he doesn’t know what else to do. The tears are real—but they’re not for me. They’re for him.
The way he cries—
the way he makes himself small and pitiable—
the way he makes himself the victim—
All I can see is my father.
Him sitting at the kitchen table, his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking.Why do you make me do this?he would say, his voice thick with tears.Why do you push me? You know Idon’t want to hurt you. You know I love you. Why do you make me so angry?
Julian is not my father. I know this. Julian has never hit me. Julian has never locked me out. Julian has never made me stand in the cold and count my own heartbeats.
But the pattern is the same. The tears. The self-pity.
His pain becomes the center of the story, eclipsing everything I have endured.
I will not fall for his tears.
“I’m not making you do anything,” I tell him. “I just want you to leave me alone. That’s all.”
He wipes his tears harshly, like they’re an embarrassment. “Stop saying things like that,” he begs. “I know I hurt you. I know I made mistakes. But please… stop.”
He draws a sharp breath. His eyes well up again. “Nora… you love me. You iron my clothes before I even ask. You wake up before dawn to make my breakfast. You sat with me for three days when I had the flu. Every night, dinner is on the table. Even when you stopped talking to me, you never stopped taking care of me. You can’t do all of that for someone you don’t love.”
I shake my head. “No. I did those things because I was supposed to.”
He stares at me, bewildered. “What?”
“That’s what our families agreed to when we got married,” I say plainly. “I take care of the house. The home. You. You work. You provide. You were there, Julian. You nodded along with everyone else.”
“Yes, I was there,” he says, his voice sharpening. “I know what was discussed. But stop lying. That’s not the only reason. Nobody does all of that so perfectly if it’s just a chore. You did it for love.”
“No. I did everything perfectly because you demanded it.” I hold his gaze. “You told me to get it right, to follow yourschedule, not to be careless. You showed me exactly how you wanted things done. You said it wasn’t that hard to cook for two—or to clean a house that only two people lived in.”
I made sure everything was perfect because anything less was not acceptable.
His jaw clenches. “So it’s all my fault then? I’m the villain here? You were perfect, and I’m the bad husband?”
His words unlock a memory, sharp and clear.
It is not a memory I visit often. I have kept it locked away, in the part of my mind where I store the small, quiet cruelties—the ones that did not leave bruises but left something deeper.
The one time I had a fever so high the room swayed, my skin burning while my teeth chattered. I had never asked him for anything before. Never been too sick to do what I was supposed to do. But that morning, I couldn’t even stand. So I asked him if he could just order something for himself.
He said no need, that I should rest, that he’d make dinner on his own. His voice was kind. Understanding. He was being a good husband, the kind of husband who tells his sick wife to rest.
Half an hour later, a metallic clatter and a sharp curse pulled me from my feverish haze.
The sound was loud. Sudden. I dragged myself out of bed, my legs unsteady, my head pounding. The hallway swayed beneath my feet. I held onto the wall and walked.
I made it to the kitchen doorway.
He was standing over the stove, a pot boiling over, his face flushed with frustration. Water and sauce had spilled across the burner, hissing and smoking. A wooden spoon lay on the floor. Then he yelped, jerking his hand back from the scorching handle.
He shook his hand, hissing through his teeth. The skin on his fingers was red. When he saw me swaying in the doorway, he shook his head, his hand shoved under the cold tap. “Lookwhat you did, Nora. You couldn’t have prepped something this morning? No, you needed your rest. And now look.”
A cough rattled my chest. “I was sick this morning, too—”
