Chapter 2

But I knew Nathan didn't want to marry me. The night he agreed, he stood alone on the balcony, smoking through half a pack of cigarettes.

I watched him from the living room, separated by the glass door. The smoke clouded his face, leaving a silent silhouette.

That was the last time I thought maybe I shouldn't marry him.

But I still married him in the end, because I love him.

Every time I said "love," I couldn't help but feel a little guilty.

Life after marriage was even quieter than I'd imagined.

Nathan wasn't a bad guy.

He never yelled at me, never hit me, and never gave me the silent treatment, unless one considered that polite, almost detached attitude as a form of emotional neglect.

Nathan always remembered the things he was supposed to.

On the first of every month, he'd hand me my living expenses. It was never too much, never too little, just enough for me to keep up appearances as his wife.

On my birthday, he'd give me a gift—a necklace, a purse—always beautifully wrapped, with a card that simply said "Happy Birthday."

His handwriting was precise, and there was no more words than necessary.

I kept all those gifts, tucked away on the top shelf of my closet, never using any of them.

Because to me, those things weren't meant for me. They were for "Mrs. Miller." And "Mrs. Miller" was just a role I played, not the real me.

I did try to change things.

Once, I worked up the nerve to wait for him by the door when he got home. I took his briefcase and offered him a glass of warm water.

He hesitated for a second, gave me a polite thank you, then walked right past me into his study.

He did drink some of the water.

The glass sat on his desk overnight. When I went to clear it the next day, half the water was still there, stone cold.

One time, I gave cooking a shot. I wasn't exactly good at it, but I followed recipes and made several dishes, waiting for him to come home for dinner.

He didn't get home until almost eleven. When he saw the food laid out on the table, he stopped in his tracks.

Nathan asked, "You haven't eaten yet?"

I said, "I was waiting for you."

He went quiet for a moment, then sat down and tried a few bites. "You don't have to wait for me anymore," he said after that. "I've got a lot of business dinners, so I never know when I'll get home."

I said, "Okay."

He ate for maybe five minutes, then headed off to take a shower.

I sat at the table, eating the rest of the food.

The pork was too salty, the lemon fish was way too tangy, and the soup was full of lumps.

I ate until I was stuffed, and all I wanted to do was cry.

But I didn't cry. My mom always told me that crying never solved anything.

By our second year of marriage, I realized I was becoming more and more like a shadow.

I drifted through the house without a sound, without leaving a mark.

I learned to tidy up the living room before Nathan got home, and waited until he'd left before getting out of bed.

I learned to keep the TV volume barely above a whisper, and turned the kitchen fan to its lowest setting.

I learned to eat alone, shop alone, and even see the doctor alone.

One time, I had a fever that shot up to 103°F. I was so groggy that I lay there on the couch.

When Nathan got home, he saw me and reached out to touch my forehead.

His hand was cool against my burning skin. It was so comforting I wanted to cry.

"You've got a fever?" Nathan asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"Have you taken any medicine?"

"No, not yet."

He frowned, went to the medicine cabinet, found some fever medicine, poured a glass of water, and handed it to me.

I sat up and took the pills.

Nathan asked, "Do you want to go to the hospital?"

"No, I just need some sleep," I said.

He nodded and didn't say anything else.

That night, he didn't head to his study. He sat on the couch in the living room, looking with his phone and shooting me a look now and then.

I couldn't tell if Nathan cared about me, or if he thought taking care of his sick wife was part of his job.

I was desperate for his company that night. I even pretended to be asleep, barely daring to move or make a sound, scared he'd leave if he noticed.

Eventually, I really did fall asleep.

When I woke up the next morning, I found myself wrapped in a blanket. There was a bowl of oatmeal on the coffee table, with a note tucked underneath.

The note said: [Got the oatmeal from downstairs. Eat it while it's hot.]

I tucked the note away in my drawer, right alongside the diary I secretly wrote about him.

I knew it was sad, but I didn't care anymore.

*****

Valerie Scott came back in the spring.

She was Nathan's college classmate, just back from overseas, and she joined his company.

The first time I heard her name was from Nathan's secretary, Allen Hall.

That day, I stopped by Nathan's office to drop off some files he'd forgotten at home.

Allen hung out by the door and started chatting with me. "Hey, Mrs. Miller, did you know Mr. Miller just brought in a new design director? I heard she's an old college friend of his, and apparently, she's super impressive."

I said, "Oh, really? That's great."

Allen lowered his voice and said, "She's a woman, and she's pretty good-looking."

I said, "Oh."

Allen saw I didn't really react, so he dropped it.

But I took note of that.