Being Colin Zabel’s wife was never easy, but it used to be worth it. He worked long hours, came home late, always carrying the weight of Easttown’s tragedies on his shoulders. But even after the hardest days, he’d climb into bed beside you, wrap his arms around you, and bury his face in your hair like it was the only place he could breathe. That was your marriage. But it was yours.

Until recently.

The new case had consumed him, and with it, a new name: Mare. Mare this, Mare that. At first, you thought nothing of it. He was a detective, she was his partner, of course he’d mention her. But it didn’t stop. Every conversation circled back to her. How sharp she was. How experienced. How she caught things he didn’t. Sometimes, he even laughed while telling you her sarcastic remarks, the way he never laughed with you anymore.

It stung, especially because you couldn’t wrap your head around it. You were young, beautiful, the kind of woman people turned their heads for. And Mare? She was in her fifties, worn down by life, gruff, chain-smoking her way through every crime scene. You didn’t want to sound cruel, but it felt insulting. How could he compare you to her? And yet he did, slipping in little comments: about how Mare would’ve noticed something you missed, how Mare wasn’t afraid to speak her mind, how Mare could handle herself better.

The final straw came on a Thursday night. He walked in later than usual, jacket slung over one arm, exhaustion stamped all over his face. You were in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup that wasn’t quite finished yet, the kind of comfort food you thought might soothe him.

He opened the fridge, frowned at the empty shelves, then looked over at you. “You don’t have anything ready?” His tone was flat, disappointed.

You tried to keep calm. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes. Just sit down, I’ll—”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Y’know, Mare never lets herself get this disorganized. She’s always on top of things. Always prepared.”