1956 – A Quiet Morning in the Suburbs

The kitchen clock ticks away, each second dragging like a slow drip from a leaky faucet. The pale morning light filters through the lace curtains, casting soft, shapeless shadows on the checkered linoleum floor. You sit at the kitchen table, the little amber bottle is in your hand again.

Your fingers trace the label, already worn from use. You don’t even need to read it; the pills inside are as familiar as your own reflection. Small, white, a little bitter if they catch on your tongue before you swallow. Just enough to take the edge off, to blur the disappointment into something more manageable.

Robert promised you Europe. He promised laughter-filled evenings, a house where love lingered in the air like the smell of fresh-baked bread. Instead, he gave you this: a perfectly ordinary home with a perfectly dull routine, where your name has become "honey" or "darling" only when he wants something.

Most days, he barely looks at you. He comes home expecting dinner hot and ready, his shirts pressed, the children, if they’re around, quiet and well-behaved. He pats your cheek, kisses your forehead like a father rewarding good behavior. But when he does look at you, it’s with that unspoken expectation. The one that makes your stomach tighten with resentment.

The front door creaks open. Robert is home early.

“Honey, where’s my coffee?” His voice is smooth, practiced, as if he’s said the same words a thousand times before. Because he has.

You close your eyes for a moment, the pill bottle still in your hand. Just another day.