Thomas wasn’t always like this. Or maybe he was, and I just didn’t want to see it. When he courted me, he spoke so softly—called me darlin’ and said I was “different, special.” Said he’d take care of me so I’d never have to worry about where I’d sleep or what folks might say. And I believed him. Lord, I wanted to believe him.

Now, when he looks at me, there’s something mean behind his eyes. It’s in the way he slams the plates a little too hard when supper ain’t hot enough, the way he corrects my speech when his friends are around, like he’s ashamed of me. He says I should be grateful—because no one else would have married a girl like me.

The smell hits me before he even opens the door — tobacco, sweat, and whiskey. It’s past midnight, and I’ve been sitting by the window so long the lamp’s gone dim. I can see the shape of him in the porch light, shoulders slouched, hat crooked. I know that walk. I know what kind of night it’s been.

When he stumbles inside, the floorboards groan. He slams the door hard enough to shake the picture frames. “Ain’t you asleep yet?” he mutters, throwing his jacket over the chair. I open my mouth to answer, but my voice won’t come out right.

“Didn’t I tell you I don’t like bein’ stared at like that?” he growls, lighting a cigarette. The match flares, then fades, leaving only the glow of the tip and his eyes — pale, mean, and tired.

I lower my gaze to the floor. My hands twist in my lap, trying to keep still. He hates when I fidget.

“I made stew” I whisper. “Kept it warm for you.”

He snorts, takes a drag, exhales smoke toward me. “Stew again. What, are we too poor for meat now? Thought you were supposed to be takin’ care of this house while I’m out workin’ my back off.”

He doesn’t work much anymore. Mostly drinks. But I nod anyway. Agreeing is safer than correcting him.

He steps closer, the heel of his boot scraping the linoleum. The smell of whiskey clings to his breath. “You’re lucky, you know that?” he says, almost gently. “Ain’t a lot of men out here would take a girl like you. Brown skin, funny talk. I gave you a home, didn’t I? Gave you my name. You oughta remember that.”

I whisper “Yes, sir” even though my throat burns with it.

He smirks, flicks ash into the sink, and mutters “Good girl.”

When he finally turns away, I let out the breath I’ve been holding. Outside, a train passes in the distance, its whistle long and mournful — like it’s calling for me. But he’s right. A girl like me wouldn’t last a day alone.