I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling the shame crawl beneath my skin like heat I couldn't cool down. "That day... that was the first time I ever really stood up to him. I told him straight: Either I marry her, or I walk out of your life completely."
I let the silence hang for a second. The memory still stung.
"He didn't show up. Didn't call. Just... absence. Like I wasn't worth the effort if I didn't fall in line. But after that, he got worse. More hostile. Like the fact that I chose you made me some kind of traitor."
The room felt quieter somehow, like the past had pressed itself into the walls.
I looked down again, voice lower now. "I was afraid that if I told you the truth... you'd feel unwelcome. Unwanted. Like you were walking into something already poisoned and I couldn't risk that."
October didn't interrupt. Her lips parted slightly, as if she was about to speak, but nothing came out. I exhaled, long and slow.
 "I was also afraid because... knowing you, October, you would've doubled down."
She blinked.
"You would've tried to earn his love," I continued. "Tried to win him over with kindness, and grace, and patience, because that's what you do. That's who you are. And he would've rejected you. Again and again. Not because of anything you lacked, but because he made his mind up before he ever gave you a chance."
The words cracked slightly at the end.
"I didn't want to put you through that," I said. "You deserved to feel chosen. Not tolerated. Not like you had to prove you were good enough for him. I know him, it would have been a losing battle."
I finally looked at her then. Really looked.
"And maybe that was wrong. Maybe keeping it from you just made it worse in the long run. But in that moment... I just wanted to protect you from one more person who couldn't see you."
The room was quiet again. And then she said it—so calmly, so clearly it cut through the room.
"I've always wanted to work. To have a job."
I turned my head toward her. What? I blinked, caught off guard. "Why?"
She  took this small breath like she'd been holding it in for years. "I know what you're thinking, that you provide everything, and you do. You've always made sure we were taken care of. I've never had to ask. But it wasn't about money, Thomas."
She was looking down now, her thumbs pressing against each other like she was trying to keep herself from unraveling. My chest tightened.
"It was about identity. About having something that was mine. Something that wasn't just being your wife, or their mom. Because somewhere along the line, I stopped recognizing myself outside of those roles."
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. My throat was dry, and I felt like a stranger to her pain—pain I hadn't even realized was growing all this time right beside me.
"Especially after the kids," she went on, "I started feeling this constant, gnawing guilt anytime I wanted time for myself. Even just to think about something unrelated to them felt wrong. Like wanting more made me less of a mother. And that guilt—it's quiet, but it's heavy."
She looked up, "I didn't say anything because I was afraid," she said, voice softer now. "Afraid you'd think I was questioning your ability to provide. That you'd try to fix it with more money or gifts, when it wasn't about that at all. I didn't want you to think you'd failed us. But more than that... I was scared it would shake something in our family. Like if I stepped outside that box, even a little, it might make everything feel unstable. So I stayed silent. And I kept wondering if I was selfish for even wanting more....So, I've been taking perfumery classes."