Chapter 3: Old Wounds and Empty Beds

The food was all ready, but Derek still hadn’t come out.

I set the table, the steam from the chowder curling in the air, the hush in the hallway louder with each minute he stayed away.

Grandma Carol gave me a look, signaling me to go smooth things over.

She raised her eyebrows, tilting her head toward the office, mouthing, "Go on," with a little smile and a nudge.

"Come in."

His voice was flat through the closed door. I hesitated, hand hovering over the handle, then pushed inside.

The lamp was on in the office. He was hunched over, sketching something. I gently pushed the door open wider.

Stacks of paperwork cluttered the desk, but Derek was focused on a large sketchbook, pencil moving fast. I recognized his old college drafting table in the corner.

From across the room, I saw it was a drawing of a girl on horseback—my stomach twisted, recognition and jealousy flooding me.

When I got closer, he suddenly crumpled the paper in frustration.

He balled it up and tossed it at the wastebasket, missing by an inch. It landed with a soft thud on the carpet.

I said softly, "Dinner’s ready."

My voice barely carried. The smell of chowder drifted in from the hall.

He still seemed angry about earlier, his expression distant and cold.

His lips were pressed in a tight line, eyes shadowed by the lamplight. He didn’t look up from his hands.

"Not hungry."

The words dropped like a stone. I stood there awkwardly, tray cooling in my hands.

I knew what Derek wanted—when he was mad, he always waited for someone to coax him.

He waited, silent, as if daring me to say something that would break the tension. It was a pattern I’d learned by heart—his anger a wall I was meant to climb.

But today’s pain felt like a fishbone in my throat. No amount of coaxing would dislodge it. My voice caught, and I stared at my shoes, suddenly twelve years old again.

My mind was dragged back to six years ago, the day I’d looked forward to more than any other—the most important day of my life.

The memory burned—the dress, the cake, the empty seat beside me at the altar, the sympathetic glances from the guests. My cheeks flushed even now.

But to be left alone on my wedding night was such a helpless thing…

I pressed my palm to my chest, feeling the old bruise beneath the surface.

After a long silence, I just said,

“I made your favorite fish chowder.”

My voice was thin, brittle. I set the bowl on his desk and turned to leave, not waiting for an answer. My mouth opened—then snapped shut. No point. The words would only bounce off him.

After speaking, I quietly left.

The hallway felt endless as I walked back to the kitchen, the sound of my footsteps muffled on the runner.

In the end, Derek still didn’t come to eat. The chowder went cold.

I watched the clock, willing him to come out. The house creaked and settled, but the office door stayed shut. The chowder’s surface grew a thin skin, the aroma fading.

I tasted it; it was no longer fresh, so I could only regretfully pour it out.

I dumped the bowl in the sink, the broth swirling down the drain. I stared at the empty sink, suddenly exhausted.

After settling Lily, the kitchen helper brought me a bowl of birthday noodles. As I ate, I suddenly burst into tears.

She hovered, unsure, holding the bowl with trembling hands as I sobbed into my sleeves.

She thought the noodles weren’t good and immediately made two or three more bowls.

She scrambled to the stove, mumbling apologies, the noodles sticking together as she rushed.

I stopped her, shaking my head. “They’re fine.”

I managed a weak smile, trying to stem the tide of tears.

I just suddenly remembered that when I was a kid, every time it was my mom’s birthday, my dad—a military man—would cook noodles for her himself.

Dad would shuffle around the kitchen in his old Army t-shirt, humming Johnny Cash while he stirred the pot. He always said, “This is love, sweetheart, not just supper.”

It’s a shame. I heard Derek used to enjoy baking cookies to give to Miss Harper.

There was a time when he’d sneak out at midnight, flour on his nose, just to leave a plate on her porch. He’d never even tried my banana bread.

But I never had that luck.

I set my fork down, appetite gone, wondering if it was something I’d done, or just something I wasn’t.

I washed up quickly and lay in the empty bed, staring blankly.

The sheets felt cold, even though the room was warm. I listened to the hum of the air conditioner, the muffled sounds of the city outside.

Ever since I got pregnant, Derek seemed to have put down a heavy burden, breathed a sigh of relief, and moved to the office to sleep.

He said it was for his back, but I knew it was more than that. Our bed became a place for folding laundry, not for closeness.

The few times we shared a bed were only when he came home drunk—one wild night.

Those nights blurred into memory, his breath hot and heavy, his words slurred, his hands desperate. We never spoke of them in the morning.

Tonight, in a daze, Derek came in.

I heard the door click, footsteps soft across the carpet. I kept my eyes closed, pretending to sleep.

He sat at my bedside but said nothing.

I felt the mattress dip, his presence filling the room, his silence louder than any words.

The moonlight was soft, spilling over his face, but I could never see his expression clearly.

It caught on his cheekbones, making him look almost boyish, but there was a hardness I didn’t recognize.

Derek spoke quietly, “I know you’re not asleep.”

His voice was rough, almost apologetic. I turned toward him, blinking back the tears I thought I’d hidden.

My voice was still a little hoarse. “What is it?”

He reached for my hand but stopped short, resting it on his knee instead. I could smell the faintest hint of whiskey on his breath.

He was silent for a while, then suddenly leaned over and kissed me gently.

His lips were cool, hesitant, as if he was searching for something he’d lost. I felt myself stiffen.

I don’t know why, but I instinctively turned away.

A reflex, not a decision. His lips caught my hair instead, and I heard his breath catch.

His lips brushed past the hair by my ear, and he looked a bit startled.

He lingered there, eyes closed, and when he pulled back, there was a flash of hurt—quick, hidden, gone in an instant.

Derek closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Natalie, we’ve been married for six years, haven’t we?”

He ran his hand through his hair, searching my face for something I couldn’t name.

I didn’t understand what he meant. “Yeah.”

I sat up, wrapping the comforter around my shoulders.

“No matter what I did before, or how I felt about you, at least we’ve respected each other for this long, and… we have Lily.”

He seemed to be trying to convince himself as much as me. His voice was softer now, but still tinged with defeat.

He sounded a bit helpless. “Let it go. Don’t keep holding onto it. Don’t ruin what we have now, okay?”

His words settled in the room, heavy as rain. I stared at my hands, wishing for something more—just a touch of regret, a hint of real feeling.

My heart ached. I wasn’t the one clinging to the past.

I swallowed hard, biting back the urge to scream or sob. I wanted to shake him, to make him see me.

As a woman, I didn’t dare resent him.

That’s not what “good wives” did—not in our town, not with our families watching. I buried my anger beneath layers of patience.

After all these years of calm, when old wounds were exposed again in public, I still felt unwilling.

It was like the scab had ripped open, bleeding all over again. I was so tired of pretending it didn’t hurt.

I just wanted a belated apology.

Just once, I wanted to hear him say he was sorry, that I mattered as much as she did.

But unfortunately, Derek never seemed to feel he owed me anything…

The silence in the room was answer enough. I lay back, staring at the ceiling, letting the tears slide silently into my pillow.