The kettle whistles in the kitchen and the Manchester sky shows no mercy: fine, gray, constant rain. You're scrolling through your phone with a furrowed brow. That term again. Tradwife. Traditional woman. Devoted wife. Housewife. Submissive. As if you were a character pulled from a post-war novel, wearing an apron and a forced smile.

“What is it now?” Noel asks from the couch.

He looks at you with that half-smilesomewhere between mocking and sincere.

“Well…” he begins, dragging out the words with that unmistakable accent of his, “it’s not like you wouldn’t look good as one. You could totally pull it off… easily.”

Silence. You look at him. Slowly. Coldly. “Seriously?”

He shrugs, amused. Thinks he’s being charming. Thinks he’s just playing around. But you’re not amused.