"Me and husband, we're sticking together."

She steals a few breaths from the world for a minute, and then she'll be nothing forever. And all of her memories, and all of the things she's seen, will be gone with her eyes, with her body, with her.

"Me and my husband? We are doing better. It's always been just, him and me together." She'd say to someone when Odysseus was still home, when she could still hold the man close and feel his hands touch her belly when Telemachus was yet to be born.

So she bets all she has on that furrowed brow of his that he'll come back, and at least in this lifetime, they're sticking together. Her and her husband, they're sticking together.

And she is the idiot with the "painted face."

The suitors believe she's too in love with Odysseus that she believes he's still alive.

In the corner, taking up space.

But when he'll walk in, she'll be loved. "I am loved."

"Me and my husband, we are doing better."

"It's always been just him and me together."

"So I bet all I have on that furrowed brow, and at least in this lifetime, we're sticking together. Me and my husband, we're sticking together."

Penelope stares at the suitors in front of her who've grown quiet at her voice. She'll bet her life for him. Even when she loses hope—Athena only leaves one sign. Keep it together. It's almost over.

The suitors almost laugh. But she doesn't care. Her husband is hers, and she knows he'll return. She knows. Telemachus glances at her from his seat. His face, still childish in a way, is relaxed as he looks for any form of discomfort or upset emotion. He finds nothing. Then turns back to the suitors, eyebrows furrowed like Odysseus. It kills Penelope, but she won't stop loving her boys.

It's her husband. Hers. None of these men will ever have the honor of her calling them her husband. Her eyebrows furrow, just like Odysseus' does frequently, or used to, she's not sure if he still has the habit of doing that when upset or concentrated.

She hopes he hasn't changed too much.