Chapter 2: A Marriage of Ghosts

My heart clenched.

It was like something inside me twisted, hot and tight. The man before me wore a crisp white shirt, his features striking and handsome, but always cold and far away.

He looked like a photograph in an old frame—perfect, untouchable, distant. His sharp jaw, the way he never quite met my gaze, made the room feel colder.

Since coming home six years ago, he’d changed completely, his smile a rare, careful thing.

He used to burst through the door laughing, trailing mud from the backyard, a six-pack swinging at his side. Now it was just briefcases and silence, every smile measured like it cost him something.

Even when I gave birth to Lily, he only looked at her a few extra times and politely said, "You did good."

The nurse smiled, "You have a beautiful family," but I saw the way he looked at our daughter—almost relieved, like he’d crossed something off a list.

Seeing me standing there dazed, Derek frowned, like he couldn’t wait to disappear, then slipped into his home office, shutting the door behind him.

The soft click echoed down the hall. I stood, groceries in hand, feeling like a shadow clinging to the wall.

Grandma Carol caught me by the kitchen doorway, a bag of tofu still dangling from my hand.

She leaned against the frame, folding her arms, her eyes soft in the dim light.

She tried to sound breezy. "What happened? Wasn’t it just a quick run to the store? How’d it turn into a fight?"

She was trying for lightness, but I could hear the worry underneath. She always knew when I was on the verge of tears.

I lowered my head, eyes stinging.

I blinked fast, willing nothing to spill over. The house felt too quiet, every tick of the wall clock loud as thunder.

Today was my birthday, and Grandma Carol had shooed Derek out for a walk with me.

She set out my favorite mug and made a big deal about the sunshine, nudging Derek with a playful wink, hoping for a spark between us.

Lily was at school, so I was free. I’d even dressed up, slipping in the pearl hairpin he once gave me.

I brushed my hair twice, chose a dress with little yellow flowers, hoping for a single word of notice. The pearl hairpin felt like a lucky charm, though I doubted he’d remember.

Derek barely glanced at me, but he let me hold his arm and bought me whatever I wanted.

We wandered down Main Street, passing the coffee shop where he used to tease me about my triple-shot lattes. He let me loop my arm through his, stiff but willing, stopping at every vendor I lingered at, handing over bills without complaint.

On the way home, I remembered Derek liked fish chowder, but we were almost out of tofu.

I could taste the chowder—thick, peppery, tofu melting into the broth. I wanted to do something right for him, just this once.

Up ahead, a blind old man waited in line. When the vendor was slicing tofu, she sneakily took out more than half. I caught her.

She thought no one would see, but I did. I called her out, and the old man shuffled his feet, embarrassed, while the vendor’s voice turned sharp.

Derek saw it too, but just leaned lazily against the ice chest, eyes glazed, not bothering to step in as the argument heated up. Bystanders watched us both, and my cheeks burned even hotter.

I’m usually quiet, rarely confrontational, but now I was crying, my eyes red.

My hands shook around the bag. I hated scenes, but I hated injustice more. Tears streamed down, hot and silent, as the world seemed to shrink.

Deep down, I knew—he never stands up for me in front of strangers…

I could count on one hand the times he’d defended me. Each time, I hoped maybe this would be different. It never was.

Grandma Carol pulled me in for a side-hug, her hand patting my back with a rhythm that said she’d done this a thousand times before.

"Alright, don’t mind what people say. It’s all old news from six or seven years ago."

She shrugged, trying to sound dismissive, but her eyes glimmered with sympathy. "People here remember everything and forget nothing."

She went on, "Anyway, Derek has nothing to do with her now. You two already have a kid."

She squeezed my shoulder. "He’s here, isn’t he? That’s what matters. You have Lily and a home."

"Just live your life."

Her words were gentle but firm—a nudge to let old wounds scab over, not pick at them.

I wiped my eyes and tried to smile.

I tried to make it convincing, but my lips trembled. "Yeah."

She was telling me to learn to be content.

It was the same lesson she’d offered since I moved in—gratitude over longing, quiet acceptance over resentment.

Grandma Carol was easy to get along with; I was the daughter-in-law she’d picked out years ago.

She’d told everyone at the VFW I was just right for her Derek—pretty, polite, knew her way around a casserole. She liked that I always remembered her birthday.

I was the second daughter of the Chandler family—not too high or too low, pretty and polite, gentle and mild-mannered.

My mother always said I had “just enough backbone” for marriage, but never too much. I made small talk at the PTA, wrote thank-you cards, and kept my voice down at church.

A very standard choice for a guy like Derek.

The kind of girl you could introduce to your boss, or let watch the neighbor’s kids. The kind people called “sweet,” never “complicated.”

To marry Derek, who was the star quarterback, the guy who could throw a Hail Mary or run track like his shoes were on fire. The whole town cheered for him at Friday night games. My friends whispered about him, sometimes watching me with a mix of envy and wistfulness.

The only problem was, Derek already had someone in his heart…

Even then, I’d known. His eyes wandered at every school dance, his laughter was just a little too loud around her. I tried not to let it bother me.

The sky was fading, dusk swallowing up the last light.

The golden edge of the day slipped behind the trees, the streetlights flickered on, the smell of cut grass and distant barbecue drifting through the air.

Lily was brought home by the babysitter, her little voice ringing out.

Her voice floated through the hall—light and high-pitched, her backpack bouncing. “Mommy! I’m hungry!”

I turned away, hiding the sadness in my eyes, and smiled as I rubbed her soft cheek.

I scooped her up and kissed her, trying to banish the ache. “There’s my favorite girl.”

"Alright, alright, Mommy will get your favorite lemon bars right away."

She squealed, clapping her hands, and I wiped my tears quickly before heading to the kitchen.

Having just bought tofu, I started pan-frying catfish while keeping an eye on the lemon bars cooling on the counter. The kitchen filled with the smell of frying catfish and lemon bars cooling on the counter, sunlight slanting through the gingham curtains.

Oil splattered onto my hand, and the kitchen helper asked, worried,

“Ma’am, let me do it. Why wear yourself out like this?”

She was a local high school senior, always eager to help, her brow furrowed with concern.

I wiped my sweat and waved her off.

“It’s fine.”

Because Derek was really picky about food, he was never satisfied with ordinary dishes and would sometimes just get up and leave halfway through dinner.

It was humiliating the first few times—his fork clinking on the plate, chair scraping as he left half his meal untouched. It made every bite taste bland, even when Lily tried to chatter through the silence.

He was busy with work every day; how could he not eat?

I tried to remind myself it was just stress—long hours at the office, pressure from the firm. Still, every empty chair at dinner stung.

I noticed this, so I started cooking myself, looking up recipes and slowly figuring out some small dishes.

Late at night, after everyone was asleep, I’d sit on the couch with YouTube open, scribbling down recipes in an old spiral notebook. I bought spices with names I couldn’t pronounce, hoping each new dish might earn a nod or a smile.

The first time I brought them to him, Derek was surprised and ate half a bowl more of rice.

He raised his eyebrows—almost smiled—and went back for seconds. It felt like winning a prize at the county fair, that rare, golden moment.

After that, I got used to making some from time to time.

It became my quiet project—trying to cook our way back to something like happiness.