I froze, the serving spoon trembling in my grip.
“I—I’ll replace the soup,” I whispered, already reaching for the bowl.
Alaric slammed his spoon against the table. “Seriously, Corinne? If this is about what I said earlier, don’t take it out on me like this. Poisoning me with bland food? You didn’t even try. Cooking is your only job.”
Only job. The words hung heavier than his tone.
That’s how they saw me. Someone who cooked, cleaned, washed, existed in the background. The one who woke first and slept last. The one who raised our son while Alaric worked late—or claimed he did. But none of it counted. I wasn’t building fortunes or closing deals. I was just the woman who scrubbed floors and waited for commands.
Once, I told myself it was enough. That staying home to raise a child, to hold a family together, was noble. But what did I really build? A son too busy to call. A husband who saw me as excess baggage. A father who never saw past the girl who was nothing like Isolde.
And maybe the worst part—I let it happen. I accepted it. I made myself disappear.
My vision blurred as tears welled. My voice cracked. “I’ll make another pot.”
The door creaked open. Heels clicked on the floor. A familiar voice followed.
“Oh! Am I interrupting?”
Isolde. Of course. Even her footsteps sounded expensive. She carried herself like triumph itself—confident, admired, untouchable. The daughter my father always wanted.
“Just dropping off business files,” she said with her perfect smile. “So we can finalize things.”
Father rose at once, eager, like she had summoned him. “No, not at all. We’re only eating.”
Isolde’s gaze fell to the table. “Perfect. Can I have some? Corinne made it, after all.”
Alaric snorted. “Not worth it. No flavor at all. Why don’t we just eat out? Somewhere good. My treat.” He shoved the bowl away.
My hands still smelled of onion and oil.
“That sounds great,” Isolde chimed, bright as ever.
Father agreed immediately. “I’ve been craving grilled seafood.”
Then Isolde turned to me. “You’ll come too, right, cousin?”
But Alaric cut in. “She’s busy. Housework. Let her finish this. Besides, she’s not into these things. We’ll be discussing business—nothing she’d enjoy.”
Nothing I’d enjoy. As though I didn’t crave a meal outside these walls. As though I didn’t want food I hadn’t cooked myself.
Isolde hesitated, then smiled again. “Alright, I’ll bring you something nice from the restaurant.”
And they left. Laughing. Without a goodbye.
I stood there in the silence, with the scent of burned soup clinging to the room.
I sat, spooned the same bowl Alaric spat out, and tasted it. Too watery. Lacking salt. I failed. Not because I wanted to, but because I couldn’t taste anything anymore.
My gaze wandered over the house I had tended for twenty-five years. The walls I painted. The floors I scrubbed. The birthdays, the Christmases, the little moments I poured myself into.
Yet I was never a partner. Never a wife.
Just their servant. Their convenience.
And the truth cut deeper than any insult.
I ate the soup anyway. I cleared the table. I washed the dishes. I folded the napkins.
I went upstairs and sat at the edge of the wide, cold bed. My hand pressed against my chest as I whispered, “I chose this.”
I let them mold me. I let myself fade.
But maybe… maybe I didn’t have to stay this way. Maybe pieces of me still existed, waiting.
For the first time in years, I allowed myself to cry—loud, unrestrained—for the woman I was, and the woman I might yet become.
