The air in the kitchen was thick with the scent of dark roast coffee and a silence that felt less like peace and more like a vacuum. Estelle Vance, twenty-nine, moved with the rigid efficiency of someone running on reserves. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe, tidy knot; her tailored blazer was already on, despite the 6:15 AM hour.

She placed a ceramic mug—Richard’s mug—on the marble counter with careful precision, making sure no droplet of coffee marred the surface. Her husband, a corporate lawyer, was already seated at the table, obscured behind the financial section of the Journal. He didn't look up.

"I finished the tax documentation folder," she stated, her voice even and low, the voice of a professional delivering a status report, not a wife speaking to her husband. "It's on your briefcase."

A faint rustle of newspaper was the only reply.

Estelle turned to the task that mattered: packing Lydia’s lunch. The three-year-old’s small shoes clattered down the hall, breaking the house’s emotional sterility.

"Mama! The sun is grumpy!" Lydia announced, rubbing her eyes.

A small, genuine smile touched Estelle’s lips—the only true light in the room. "The sun just needs some breakfast, sweetheart. Just like us."

She caught her reflection in the glass of the microwave: a woman who looked exactly like she was supposed to. Perfect façade, perfect life. She inhaled, the scent of fresh bread masking the deeper, colder odor of neglect. Just another day of maintenance, she thought, pouring her own coffee. Keep the structure sound.