Chapter 4 - The Woman of the House

“Another glass of wine, Rose?” my father-in-law, Richard, asks. Before I can give him a rushed nod, he reaches for the bottle.

A few minutes ago, I saw him eye the stem of my wineglass and I realized I was holding it so tight it could have snapped in half. I loosened my grip and let the color come back into my fingers. Richard gave me a sympathetic smile as he refilled my glass. His pity made my stomach tense.

I take a sip, feeling as stiff as I look. Instead of thinking about what to say next, I’m thinking about the angle I should hold my head at so I seem interested in the conversation about the lifespan of perennial flowers, but not confused by it.

I uncross and cross my legs, but it’s no use. The tweed couch isn’t what’s making me uncomfortable. Brian’s sister, Michelle, is wearing an expensive-looking linen dress, while his mom, Deborah, has on a striped button-down shirt with a logo I don’t recognize. I take another sip of wine while I regret throwing on a faded pair of jeans instead of looking harder for the dress I bought at Ann Taylor for dinners like this. Brian grabs my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

Richard, who has only just sat back down from refilling my glass, stands up and walks to the window. Like me, I imagine he’s looking for some form of escape from his family. Michelle flashes her husband, Mark, a look, but he’s too busy scrolling through his phone to notice. I wish one of their kids would yell or start crying. If nothing else, it would break the silence.

“Mark, show Mom and Dad the picture we took of the kids the other day,” Michelle says, as if that’s what Mark was looking for on his phone in the first place. She taps the top of his knee with one of her fake fingernails.

“Huh?” Mark says, only mildly aware his wife was talking to him.

“The picture by the pool,” she says, emphasizing every word like she’s talking to one of her small children.

“Oh yeah,” he says without looking up from the screen. After the picture gets passed around, which was nothing to pass around in the first place, the conversation turns to the latest news of Brian’s niece and nephews. The oldest, Kayla, is taking gymnastics, ballet, and piano. The middle one, John, is in basketball, tennis, and karate. The youngest one, Tyler, is in kindergarten, so he’s only signed up for soccer and basketball.

“I loved taking ballet classes when I was little,” I offer as a way to join the conversation.

“What style did you study?” Michelle asks.

“Sorry?” I pinch the side of my leg, not realizing there are different styles.

“Balanchine? Vaganova? Cecchetti? I mean they’re all so different.” Michelle looks at Deborah for confirmation, and she nods her head in agreement.

“Don’t even get me started on contemporary,” Deborah says.

“It shouldn’t even be considered ballet as far as I’m concerned.”

“Oh, I’m not sure. It was so long ago.” I swallow hard. I’ve never set foot in a ballet studio.

Soon, it’s silent again and my thrifted gray sweater feels tight around my neck. Deborah smiles without her teeth. Richard taps his right foot. Michelle tries to hide her boredom by studying one of her manicured hands. Heat gathers in my armpits as I think of what to say next, something that will convince them that I’m one of them. Something that will prove I belong here.

“Brian, would you mind helping me in the kitchen?” Deborah asks, unknowingly saving me from myself. Even though she was just sitting, her black pants still have a perfect crease down the middle. Her sandy blonde hair grazes a pearl necklace that sits just above her chest, which is perkier than it should be for a woman her age. I’ve never seen her without the family heirloom clasped around her neck, and I wonder if she takes it off to sleep.

“Can I help with anything, Deborah?” I get up from my place on the couch.

“I’ve told you, Rose. Please call me Mom.” Deborah places a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“Sorry, Mom,” I say. The word is awkward in my mouth.

“And, no. Sit, sit. Dinner will be ready soon.”

Deborah and Brian disappear into the kitchen.

Whenever we come over, Deborah asks Brian for help in the kitchen. Brian never had to do so much as a load of laundry growing up, so I know she doesn’t need the extra set of hands. She just wants to get her golden child alone so they can talk. Behind the closed kitchen door, I imagine their conversation. I’m sure Deborah asks Brian how work is going. He’s probably telling her about his latest win at one of his properties, and she’s smiling with pride. She’s not surprised, she says. He’s special. Then, Brian comments on how beautiful her garden is this year, while they both admire it from behind the window. That’s when Deborah takes a deep, deliberate breath and asks her son the question she’s not supposed to ask: What do you see in her?

Michelle says she’s going to check on the kids, snapping me out of my daydream. When no one responds, she nudges Mark. She means to be subtle, but she’s not.

“What?” Mark says, finally looking up from his phone.

“Come help me with the kids,” Michelle says. She gives me a fake smile as she passes. She doesn’t need help with the kids; she wants to talk about me with Mark. I’m guessing he will only pretend to listen.

Richard and I are left alone in the living room. He sips on his drink: gin with a splash of tonic. No matter how many he has, he still looks sober. I let my eyes move around the room. Graduations, recitals, and European vacations are displayed in framed photographs on the mantel. Brian’s perfection is well-documented from adolescence. In every picture he’s either holding up a trophy, scoring a touchdown, or shaking the hand of a dean with one hand while he accepts a diploma with the other. I wonder what it was like to live up to Richard and Deborah’s high expectations. Mother never expected anything of me. Probably because she never expected anything of herself.

In every picture, Richard’s wearing some sort of collared shirt, khaki pants, and a belt that’s fastened one notch too tight. The hair on his head thins over the years, but his expression is the same closed-mouth smile he wears in real life.

“So are you enjoying retirement?” I ask. We both look up from our drinks and make awkward eye contact. If we don’t talk, I’ll be drunk before dinner. Brian won’t like that.

“Retirement is a funny thing,” he says, looking out the window at something that isn’t there. “You work toward it your whole life. You have big plans for it when it comes, but when it finally does, you’re not sure what to do with it. I lose track of the days. Mondays and Fridays feel the same to me now. It’s disorienting, in a way.”

“I can understand that,” I say. That’s what I liked about working at the insurance agency. The days went by fast because there was always something that needed to be done. Now that I’ve stopped working, I’m not sure how to fill my days.

“I can’t tell if Deborah likes having me home or not. For years she’s had the house to herself during the day, so I guess I’ve kind of screwed that up.”

“I’m sure she loves having you around.”

Richard chuckles to himself, then takes another sip of his drink. “I think Deborah’s making salmon,” he says as he sits up in his seat with his nose in the air, clearly embarrassed he’s opened up too much.

“Brian makes a good salmon,” I say.

“He’s a pretty good cook, huh?” Richard says.

“He is,” I say, even though salmon is the only thing he can make. The wine is warm in my mouth. I lick my teeth, feeling them redden with every sip I take.

“Not me, though.” Richard rubs the pregnant part of his stomach all men of a certain age seem to have. “I’m good at the eating, but not so much the cooking.”

“Well, I didn’t marry Brian for his cooking,” I say with a small chuckle. To my surprise, Richard laughs along with me.

“Brian said he spotted you in a coffee shop and that was it. Love at first sight,” Richard says.

Brian always says he noticed me first, but that’s not the truth—not really.

We both stopped at the same coffee shop on our way to work before catching the “L.” For five months, I watched from the corner as he stood still among the impatient commuters tapping their feet and checking their watches while they waited in line for their morning caffeine fix. His ability to stand in line without huffing and puffing isn’t what drew me to him, though. It’s what he did next. After he got his coffee, he would walk over to the trash can, remove the lid, and pour out about three tablespoons’ worth. Eventually, I realized he poured it out so he wouldn’t spill on one of his many crisp white button-downs. He did this for five months. And for five months, I wondered why he didn’t just ask for room when he ordered his coffee.

There would be days when I’d watch from the corner of the train car as he checked his email or scrolled through his social media. His slick brown hair never moved out of place no matter how hard the train car rattled on the tracks. It wasn’t just his hair or his deep brown eyes I was drawn to, though. I could tell he was kind. When the train doors would open and everyone tried to scramble off at once, Brian waited patiently on the side, letting others go before him and nodding a hello at those who passed. I didn’t know anyone like that. From my corner of the train car, I imagined him being kind to me.

“I guess it was something like love at first sight,” I say to Richard. He smiles politely before he leans back in his leather chair and takes another sip of his drink.

Outside, the sun has disappeared behind the horizon, casting the sky in a midnight blue. As if on cue, the streetlights turn on all at once, illuminating the empty block.

“I’m not surprised. When Brian sees something he wants, he goes after it. He’s determined, that one.”

I rub my tongue against the front of my teeth, which feel thick with red wine residue. Richard is partially right. Brian did pursue me, but only after I pursued him.

The night I took the train home from the New Hope Mental Health Facility for the last time, I sat in the corner, eyes wide, muttering under my breath. The romance novel I was reading about a woman who falls in love with her neighbor usually helped cleanse my mind of the gray walls and harsh fluorescent lights of the facility, but that night it sat unopened on my shaking lap. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a deep blue, expensive-looking peacoat. At first I wasn’t sure if it was the man from the coffee shop. There were plenty of young men with brown hair and blue peacoats, dozens of investment bankers and corporate bros riding the Brown Line north to their homes in Lincoln Park or Lakeview. I thought I was imagining him, willing myself to see what I wanted to see. But then he turned and I noticed the Northwestern pin on the lapel of his coat. It was him.

He stood at one end of the car while I sat at the other. His hair was a little disheveled, like he’d run his fingers through it too many times throughout the day. He held on to the handle above him while his body swayed with the movement of the car. His eyes were glassy and out of focus. He’d been drinking. A happy hour that got out of hand, maybe. I wondered if he was celebrating a win at work or drowning his sorrows for a deal gone wrong. Or maybe it had been a date, a few drinks with some girl he’d met on Hinge. I wondered where he slept, if it was alone or with someone else. I’d pictured him in a brick walk-up, but maybe he lived in one of those newer, larger complexes with a gym and a rooftop pool. Then an automated voice announced the Fullerton stop and Brian hopped off. Just as the train doors were about to close, I slipped between them.

I followed Brian through Lincoln Park for several blocks, trailing about fifteen feet behind him. We passed brownstones with families framed in the windows watching TV and college students sprawled out on their stoop, passing a joint between them. Brian staggered down the sidewalk, and every once in a while I heard him sigh. Then, without warning, he stopped, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone.

“Hey, Dave,” he said. “Yeah, yeah I broke up with her. Come on, you know why. You’re going to make me say it? All right, all right, all right. Fine.” He chuckled, ran his hands through his hair. “I can’t end up with someone who went to a community college. My parents would never let me hear the end of it. Look, I’m almost home. Yeah, I got a few beers with Chris and the guys after I broke it off with her. Okay, sounds good. Talk to you later. Bye.”

When we got to the corner, the streetlights above us turned on. I froze under the spotlight while Brian turned on his heel and walked up the steps of a brick building. I grabbed my phone and turned toward the street, pretending to order an Uber while he fumbled with his keys.

Once he went inside, I was standing alone on the street in my full-length puffer jacket, which grazed the snow-covered sidewalk. The building had three units, one on each floor. The lights on the top floor went on one by one as Brian moved through the apartment. A mailbox was attached to the fence just along the sidewalk. I ran my finger across the dotted line that jutted out from Apartment 3. “Brian Crawley,” I said to myself, as the streetlight flickered above me.

When I left Brian’s apartment that night, I had no intention of going back. But when I didn’t see him at the coffee shop or on the train the next morning, I started to worry. So after work, I got off at Brian’s stop and walked the same path to his apartment. I sat on the front stoop of the building across the street, pretending to read while I waited to get a glimpse of a man I barely knew. The little I did know about him was surface-level: he wore expensive-looking clothes, lived in a luxe apartment, and winked at the barista after he tipped. He and I weren’t just in different leagues, we lived in different worlds. Eventually, his apartment was flooded with light against the dark sky, and his large floor-to-ceiling windows didn’t have curtains, so I had an unobstructed view of his kitchen and living room. After about ten minutes he came out from his bedroom and sat down on the couch to watch TV. A football game. He threw his hands in the air every time his team missed a catch and whooped on his own when they scored. From my spot on the stoop, I found myself smiling at his happiness. When was the last time I’d felt joy like that? Never. I desperately wanted it to rub off on me.

After that, it became a sort of routine. Instead of going home to my perpetually mouse-infested studio apartment, where I’d eat yet another bowl of ramen noodles alone as college students stumbled in and out of the bar I lived above, I got off the train four stops earlier. Sitting on the stoop across from Brian’s apartment and watching him make chicken and rice for dinner, do an ab workout on the living room floor, or binge-watch several episodes of Law & Order was better than sitting by myself in my dim apartment watching a reality show about middle-aged women getting drunk at a dinner party. Seeing him live his exceptionally normal life, full of practical routines and healthy habits, reminded me of everything I didn’t have but so badly wanted.

One day at the coffee shop, Brian noticed me noticing him. After pouring out his coffee, he strode toward my corner table and asked about the book I was reading. My cheeks burned as I told him it was just a silly love story, something to occupy my time while I waited for the train. With a knowing smile stretched across his face, he continued the conversation. Words tumbled out of my mouth in a clumsy order, but it felt good to be in his orbit, to have his beautiful brown eyes focused solely on me. His peacoat was unbuttoned, and a red flannel scarf flowed down the middle of his chest. A gray turtleneck was pulled all the way up to my chin and long brown hair cascaded down to the middle of my back. Somehow, between my carefully placed comment about Northwestern’s football season and an off hand joke about my adoration for Mariska Hargitay, he asked me to dinner. He said he’d cook for me, that he made an incredible salmon. No one had ever cooked for me before. I’d never even been on a date. I ignored the voice in my head that wondered why a man like him would be interested in someone like me and agreed to meet him at his place that night.

Any spare moment I had was spent researching things I knew he liked. During my commute I learned about the rules of football, studied Northwestern’s record, and memorized all the players on the team. At night, I binge-watched Law & Order so I could reference certain episodes in conversation. During my lunch break, I read articles about the history of Chicago’s architecture. I didn’t care about football, dramatized entertainment about the criminal justice system, or really tall buildings. I just needed this dinner to go well.

I thought I’d be nervous when I walked into his apartment, but because I’d spent so much time observing it from the outside, I felt some what at ease. When Brian offered to take my coat, his fingers brushing my shoulders as he helped it off, my stomach flipped. Underneath I wore the nicest outfit I owned: fitted black jeans with a black sweater that I’d bought on sale at Target. When he told me I looked nice, my cheeks burned.

Over homemade lemon-crusted salmon, Brian told me that he grew up in Barrington, a suburb outside the city.

“Did you grow up riding horses?” I asked.

“I did, actually,” he said with a little surprise.

Every tab in my phone was dedicated to a different period of Brian’s life. It wasn’t hard to find him online, what with high school records and all of that. Once I found out where he was from, I learned that Barrington was an affluent suburb known for its large, sweeping properties—many of which boasted impressive stables for their multiple horses.

“I’ve never ridden a horse before,” I said.

“I could teach you,” he said as he let his hand graze mine while he refilled my wineglass.

“I’d love that,” I said.

He said he went to Northwestern and studied engineering. Class of 2012, I thought to myself. Now, he worked as a civil engineer at a company that built office buildings. When I asked him a question about the architecture of the Hancock Building—a talking point I’d preplanned on the walk over to his place—he got giddy. His boyish excitement was endearing, and I found myself tilting closer to him, eager to get to know him better.

But when he said, “Okay, your turn. Tell me about yourself. I want to know everything,” I panicked. I was so set on finding out information about him that I hadn’t considered what I’d tell him about myself. My head spun as I tried to think of something that wouldn’t scare him away. I told him how, for the last nine years, I’d worked in insurance and sold claims for a small, family-owned company. True. I lived in a tiny studio apartment. True. I liked running through the Lincoln Park Zoo during the winter because of the Christmas lights, and my guilty pleasure was watching trashy reality TV. Both true.

He took a sip of wine and leaned back in his chair. “What about your family? Where did you grow up?” he asked. My mouth went dry and the muscles in my shoulders tensed. The pictures on his mantel were of his family, who looked like they’d just stepped out of a Suburban Living magazine. I thought about the conversation I overheard between him and his friend the night I followed him home. If he had broken up with an ex-girlfriend because she went to community college, he’d never be with someone from the West Side of Chicago with a mother who had worked in a gas station all her life. So, I told him a lie.

When he texted me the next day and asked to see me again, I felt so light I almost floated away. Mother was wrong, I thought. I wouldn’t end up alone. I’d have Brian. I would make sure of that.

Before I’d met Brian, I’d go to work during the day and go for a run at night. It didn’t matter if it was a hundred degrees or if there was a foot of snow on the ground, I’d run the length of the 606, along the lakefront, or through the zoo. With my feet pounding against the pavement, the voice inside my head would finally quiet and I could trick myself into thinking I was running away from my mundane existence.

But after our first date, Brian and I were inseparable. When it was just the two of us, he’d tell me about his childhood, about his family’s expectation for him to be perfect, about the pressure he put on himself at work. He would talk and I would listen. We’d walk through Millennium Park or have dinner in Chinatown. Every week he’d bring me to a different engagement party, birthday party, or family gathering. Since I didn’t have much of a life to start with, it was easy for me to assimilate into his. All I cared about was how I felt when I was with Brian. With him, I could have all the things I never had before: security, stability, and companionship. Love.

There were times when I thought about telling Brian the truth about where I came from, but every time I opened my mouth, the words got stuck in the back of my throat. I told myself I was protecting our relationship by lying to him about Mother. If he knew how she really was, he would never want to be with me, and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. Couldn’t bear the thought of returning to my lonely life.

So I kept up the lie during our short engagement, into the small civil ceremony, and through the first six months of our marriage. I kept up the lie and pretended to enjoy his lemon-crusted salmon even though I couldn’t stand the taste of fish.

Inside the Crawleys’ too-clean living room, Richard gets up to refill my glass. My head feels fuzzy. I want to excuse myself to go to the bathroom, but before I can, Richard starts up the conversation again.

“So, I hear moving up to Wisconsin was Brian’s idea?” Richard asks like this is new information to him, even though it’s not.

“We wanted a fresh start. Together.”

“There’s no space in the city,” he says, reaching his arms out wide. “Besides, it’s better to raise kids out in the open.”

“I agree,” I say.

“They need room.” He waves toward the front yard as if there’s a throng of kids and farm animals out front. “Do you miss it?”

“What?” I ask, thinking about pigs and cows roaming in a field.

“Chicago,” Richard says.

“Not at all,” I say, hoping I sound convincing. When Brian suggested that we move to Wisconsin, I was surprised I didn’t see it coming. It was only natural that Brian would want to live somewhere like where he grew up. Chicago was the only place I’d ever lived; it was all I knew. I was comforted by the sounds of a glass bottle crashing on the sidewalk and the “L” rattling around on tracks, but Brian felt stifled by it. Plus, Brian was so certain that moving was the right thing to do, it was easy for me to go along with it. I told myself that this was my new beginning. A clean slate. Now that I had Brian, I could leave my past behind and not look back. A few weeks later, he found the house in Lake Moss.

Richard and I smile at each other, unsure where to take the conversation next. My phone starts buzzing in my purse on the floor. Richard looks down at it, but I stare straight ahead, willing him to ignore it. When he looks back up at me, I can see curiosity creep across his face.

“Are you going to get that?” Richard asks.

“Get what?” Deborah asks as she walks back into the room.

“Rose’s phone is ringing,” he says.

“You should answer it, I bet it’s someone wishing you a happy birthday!” Deborah exclaims.

“That’s okay,” I say without looking down at my purse. “It’s not important.”

“Well, dinner’s ready,” she says, a little deflated, seemingly disappointed by my unwillingness to answer my phone.

Once everyone is seated around the dark wood dining room table, Deborah encourages us to eat. Green beans, salmon, mashed potatoes, and salad pass silently between our hands.

“Thank you for dinner. It’s delicious,” I say to Deborah.

“Of course. Someone’s got to make you a birthday dinner with your mom all the way out there in—where is she again?” Deborah says as a soft smile spreads across her face.

“Seoul.” I smile back, but I can’t help feeling the comment was a slight.

Last year, I spent my birthday at the facility listening to the phlegm-filled coughs of other guests echoing through the halls. Mother didn’t want to be there, but she had no choice. After she tried to burn down the gas station where she worked, nearly killing two people inside of it, she pled guilty and agreed to be admitted to a mental health facility instead of serving jail time. Soon after she was admitted, she was diagnosed with lung cancer, among other things.

“I never wanted a child. I wanted to get rid of it, but your father convinced me not to,” she had said as screams from neighboring patients penetrated the thick cement walls. “He told me we’d be a family, and like an idiot I fell for it. Then he left, just like they all do, and by then it was too late. I was stuck with you.”

I tried to make myself as still as possible as Mother wondered out loud how her life would have turned out differently if she hadn’t had me. It was a question I knew better than to answer. I wanted to leave, but couldn’t. Even then, there was an invisible umbilical cord that tied me to her.

“What did you expect?” she asked after noticing my eyes were downcast. “A birthday cake with candles? Don’t tell me you thought I’d get you a gift?”

I shook my head.

“The thing is, I did get you a gift,” Mother said. For once, her voice was soft. “You know how you’re always bugging me about who your father is? Asking me where he’s been all these years? Well, I know where he is.” My heart was beating fast in my chest. Even as an adult, I had hoped this day would come. I’d always dreamed that one day my father would come into my life, ready to save me from Mother. Mother motioned for me to come closer. I felt her hot breath against my cheek as she whispered in my ear. “He’s six feet under at Oak Woods Cemetery on the South Side.” Then, she threw her head back and cackled.

“No, that can’t be true—”

“The asshole told me he was a pharmacist, but he turned out to be some low-level drug dealer who hopped from corner to corner like a hooker.”

“When…” I muttered. “How did he die?”

“Oh, he went and got himself shot years ago. Yeah, you know those gangs on the South Side don’t take too kindly to independent dealers stealing their turf. I’m telling you, the man didn’t have two brain cells to rub together. When I think about it, you’re just like your stupid father.”

I ran out of the room with angry tears streaming down my face.

From down the hall, I heard her shout mirthlessly, “Happy birthday, Rose!”

“So, Rose, how’s the job hunt going?” Mark asks from across the table. “What is it you do again? Accounting, right?”

I think it’s the first time he’s asked me a question since I’ve known him. Michelle must have put him up to it.

“Insurance, actually,” I say.

“Insurance sales,” Brian chimes in. “Rose was the top-selling agent at her firm over five years running. She helped build the place up from nothing.”

I blush. Even though it’s a lie, it sounds good coming out of Brian’s mouth.

“Impressive,” Mark says. “Remind me, which type is the most lucrative?”

Everyone looks at me. “Sorry?”

“Which type of insurance makes you the most money?”

“Well…” My fingers twist around each other under the table as I pick at a piece of skin on my thumb. “There’s home insurance, auto insurance, and health insurance, of course.”

“Right,” Mark says.

“But life insurance is the most lucrative, generally speaking,” I say.

“And how do you get people to buy life insurance, anyway? What’s your strategy?”

“That’s a hard question.” I rip a piece of skin off my thumb before my fingers go back for more.

“Go ahead, Rose,” Brian says encouragingly. “Tell them how you do it.”

I smile without my teeth as I try to look like someone who has sold life insurance before. “Well, the truth is…I…”

“You’ve got us on the edge of our seats here,” Michelle says through the side of her mouth.

I clear my throat. “The truth is, I ask people a simple question: If you died tomorrow, would you be okay leaving your loved ones with absolutely nothing?”

The table is quiet.

“Killer,” Mark says at last, and everyone chuckles in response.

I sigh with relief. “Yeah, well, it usually does the trick.”

“Sounds like any insurance agency in Wisconsin would be lucky to have you,” Richard says dryly.

“Thank you, but I don’t think I’ll go back to work,” I say, looking lovingly at Brian. He reaches for my hand and smiles, just like I thought he would. My insides feel warm with his approval.

“Maybe it’s time for kids then?” Deborah says.

“Mom, come on,” Brian says. Deborah throws up her hands in innocence before sharing a glance with Michelle that says nothing and everything all at once.

Some mothers and daughters can do this: communicate with each other over a raised eyebrow or tilt of the head and know exactly what the other is thinking. Michelle’s eyes meet Deborah’s in judgment and say: Can you believe he ended up with her?

“Sorry, darling,” Deborah says, taking a sip of white wine. “I didn’t mean to pry. More green beans?”

“No, thank you,” Brian says. “I’m full.”

Without the distraction of clinking cutlery and the passing of side dishes, no one knows what to do. It’s in these small moments the illusion of the perfect family begins to fade. Loving mother. Proud father. Overachieving daughter. Perfect son. They’re each playing a part and it feels forced to me. Looking around the dinner table doesn’t convince me otherwise. Richard pulls at the collar on his shirt, Michelle goes to check on the kids in the basement, Deborah folds and unfolds the napkin on her lap, and Brian keeps checking the time on his watch. With furrowed brows and pursed lips, they wear the strain of each other’s company on their faces. Obligation is the only thing that keeps them coming back together for nights like these. They’re tied to each other just as I was tied to Mother, except by the looks of Brian’s and Michelle’s unmarked forearms, Deborah and Richard didn’t chase them around the house with hot cigarette butts for sport.

When we finally arrive home, I walk up the stairs, undoing the straps of my sandals as I go. Instead of going left into our bedroom, I turn right into the guest bedroom. I think about what Brian said earlier. He wants this room to be the nursery. It makes sense—it’s right next to our bedroom.

The room is dark when I step inside. I try to picture myself walking with a baby in my arms. Rocking them softly before laying them in a crib along the wall. They’d stir in their sleep, reaching out their little hands for me, and I’d pull them back to my chest. I try to imagine the weight of the baby against me as they nuzzle in for sleep, but I can’t. I can’t see it or feel it. I don’t want to.

Something on the dresser catches the light from the streetlamp outside. My hands, still on my chest, drop to my sides. It’s not the rattle Brian gave me earlier in the day. It’s the portrait of Mother. I thought I put it inside the drawer before we left for dinner. The floorboards creak behind me. A small gasp escapes from my mouth.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Brian says from the doorway. His shadow blocks out the light from the hallway.

“Did you take this picture out of the dresser?” I ask.

“Which one?”

“The one of my mother. I put it in the dresser before we left and now it’s out.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Brian says. He starts undoing his button-down. “Why’d you put it in the dresser?”

“I wasn’t sure I liked it here. Never mind,” I say before kissing him on the cheek.

He smiles, then goes into the bathroom. A few moments later I hear the faucet turn on.

An uneasiness settles over me as I look around the room, uncertain of what I’m looking for. Suddenly, I feel like a stranger in someone else’s home. I open the closet doors, but it’s empty inside. There’s nothing under the bed. I shut the blinds on the window. There’s no one else here. It’s just me and Brian. That familiar feeling I’d had when I first saw the house has worn off, and now I’m left with the impression I’m in a place I’m not supposed to be. I take a deep breath, remembering this is our fresh start. My fresh start.

I pick up the portrait. The frame is hot in my hands. Mother’s smug face stares right through me, straight to the truth. I try to imagine Mother as a child. I try to picture softness around her hard cheekbones and a sense of wonder in her harsh, judgmental eyes, but it’s no use. I can’t see Mother as anything other than Mother.

I put her back in the drawer, just like I thought I did earlier. Except this time, I put the photograph face down. The only thing I want her to see is darkness.