Ana Parker
John Parker looked at her the way men looked at furniture—useful, familiar, and easily ignored.
Ana noticed it that morning while placing his coffee on the kitchen counter. He didn't thank her. He didn't even glance up. His eyes were glued to his phone, his fingers tapping aggressively at the screen as if the world owed him answers.
The silence between them was heavy, practiced.
She waited anyway.
"John," she said softly, her voice careful, trained over years not to irritate. "Breakfast is ready."
He hummed in response, a distracted sound that barely counted as acknowledgment.
Ana forced a small smile and turned back to the stove.
The eggs were already perfect—just the way he liked them. Toast warm, not burnt. Coffee strong, no sugar.
She had memorized his preferences long before she memorized her own.
Behind her, she heard the scrape of his chair.
Finally.
He stood, straightened his suit jacket, and walked past her toward the door.
"Aren't you eating?" she asked gently.
John paused, glanced at the table as if seeing it for the first time, then scoffed. "I don't have time for this. I have a board meeting."
This.
Ana swallowed. "I can pack something for you. It'll only take a minute."
He turned, irritation flashing across his face. "Ana, must you always act like a housewife from the last century? I can eat outside."
The words landed exactly where they always did—quietly, but deep.
"I just thought—"
"That's the problem," he interrupted sharply. "You think too much about things that don't matter."
She nodded immediately. "You're right."
John grabbed his keys from the counter. As he reached for the door, his gaze finally landed on her. Not with affection. Not even annoyance. Just assessment.
"You should do something about your hair," he said casually. "It makes you look tired."
Then he was gone.
The door closed with a soft click.
Ana stood there, staring at the space he had occupied, her hands gripping the edge of the counter so tightly her knuckles turned white.
She exhaled slowly.
It's just stress, she told herself. He didn't mean it.
She repeated that lie often. It helped her survive.
Upstairs, the girls were already awake.
"Mama!" six-year-old Lily called, her feet thudding down the stairs. "Daddy left already?"
"Yes, sweetheart," Ana said, kneeling to smooth Lily's hair. "He had work."
Eight-year-old Emma followed more quietly, her eyes observant, too old for her age.
"He didn't say goodbye again," Emma said.
Ana smiled. "Daddy's very busy."
Emma didn't look convinced, but she didn't argue.
Ana served them breakfast, laughed when Lily spilled juice, and helped Emma fix a crooked braid. In these moments, she felt real. Needed. Loved.
Motherhood was the only place her heart still felt safe.
After the girls left for school, Ana cleaned the already spotless kitchen, folded laundry that didn't need folding, and rearranged cushions that were already straight.
Stillness made her thoughts loud.
Her phone buzzed.
Jane Miller.
Ana smiled instinctively and answered.
"Good morning, best wife in the world," Jane chirped.
"How's my favorite family?"
Ana leaned against the counter. "Same as always."
"Meaning John was a jerk before 8 a.m.?"
Ana hesitated. Jane always knew. Somehow, she always knew.
"He's under a lot of pressure," Ana said carefully.
Jane clicked her tongue. "Men like John always are.
Power does that to them."
Ana laughed weakly. "You make it sound normal."
"It is," Jane replied smoothly. "Successful men change.
You just have to adapt."
Ana nodded, even though Jane couldn't see her.
"You're strong, Ana," Jane continued. "Not every woman could stand by a man while he builds an empire."
I stood by him before the empire, Ana thought, but didn't say it aloud.
Jane sighed. "Anyway, I was thinking of coming by later. Maybe help you relax?"
"That would be nice," Ana said, grateful.
Jane had been her best friend since college. Through exams, weddings, and pregnancies. Jane had always been there. Loud where Ana was quiet. Bold where Ana was gentle.
Jane had once said, "You love too deeply, Ana. One day, it will hurt you."
Ana brushed the thought away.
That evening, John came home late.
Ana heard his car before she saw him. She straightened, smoothing her dress, hoping—foolishly—that tonight might be different.
He entered without greeting, tossed his jacket aside, and loosened his tie.
"Dinner's almost ready," Ana said. "Your favorite."
He glanced at the table. "Again?"
Her smile faltered. "You said you liked it."
"I said I tolerated it." He pulled out his phone. "Did you pay the electricity bill?"
"Yes."
"The internet?"
"Yes."
"Good." He sat. "At least you're useful."
Ana felt something twist painfully in her chest.
John," she said softly. "Did I do something wrong?"
He laughed—short and humorless. "You're always asking that. It's exhausting."
She lowered her eyes. "I just want to make you happy."
He leaned back in his chair, studying her. "That's your problem, Ana. You exist to please. It's… unattractive."
The words stung more than she expected.
She served him dinner silently.
As he ate, she remembered another John. A younger one.
A man who once held her hands in a tiny apartment and said, "When I make it, Ana, everything I have will be ours.
"Back then, she believed him.
Now, she wasn't sure he remembered saying it.
That night, as Ana lay beside him in bed, staring at the ceiling, she wondered when love had become something she had to earn.
And for the first time in years, a quiet, dangerous thought crept into her heart:
What if this marriage is breaking me?