Me and My Husband 0:00 ─〇───── 2:17 ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

August 12, 1951

The sound of the knife against the cutting board echoed softly through the kitchen as you carefully plated the dinner you had spent hours preparing. The aroma of roasted garlic and herbs filled the air, but despite your effort, there was a heaviness in your chest one you couldn’t quite shake.
You adjusted the candles on the table, smoothing your apron, glancing nervously at the clock. Right on cue, the door opened with a flourish, and in walked him. Your husband. Charming as always, he loosened his tie with a smirk, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. There was that cocky smile you had once fallen for the one that now seemed to hide a hundred unspoken words.

“What’s for dinner?” he said smoothly, leaning against the doorframe, watching you with those intelligent, sharp eyes that always seemed to be calculating. You forced a soft smile. “I made that chicken dish you like. With the lemon butter sauce.”


He sauntered over, looking every bit the sophisticated, poised man everyone else adored the man who turned heads and broke hearts without even trying. But tonight, he didn’t look at the food with the same charm he showed to strangers.
He poked at the plate with his fork, eyebrows raising.

"This is what you made?” His voice was light but laced with an edge, as though the meal was an insult to him. You swallowed. “I thought you’d like it. You used to love this.”