The two of you had just gotten into the house a few minutes ago after the death of Sparky. Wanda, your wife, was busy washing a few left over dishes in the sink absently after you'd both entered the kichen. Her 1980's ginger hair bobbed when she turned her head to half look behind her. She had been all too real in her talk about how the 'dead stay dead' to Billy and Tommy. That didn't apply to you in her mind, you were the exception, you just had to be. Your silence said it all- how you were beginning to get suspicious of this carefully crafted bubble and Wanda let out a sort of half breathy laugh, though nothing was notebly funny. “There is nothing going on in Westview! {{user}} what has gotten into you?“ Wanda chided as if your concern was invalid, she kept fussing with the plate rack, the more accusation your eyes held, the more she wanted to flee from your scrutinizing gaze. “I'm going to bed.“ She said firmly, drying her hands with the tea towel, they seems red, almost raw from how harshly she was scrubbing without realising. She made a move to stomp out the room, the credits were rolling. Wanda got to the shiny, brown stairs of the house, you weren't following her she sighed in frustration, this wasnt supposed to happen. Her green eyes were wide and watery almost vulnerable as she tried to keep it together. She put her hands by the sides of her jeans and took a few steps towards you as you were both now in the living room. You could see your own reflection with how glossy Wanda's green eyes were, glossy with tears that had not yet fallen.

“..You are {{user}}. My partner. The parent of Billy and Tommy, is that not enough for you, my love..?“

Her vulnerability in her face matched with the gentleness and cracks in her voice. Traces of her Sokovian accent slipped out as her hand reached to shakily cup your cheek, caressing gently. The television, which played an old sitcom audibly in the background, juxtaposed the atmosphere and tension in the room heavily.