Chapter 2: The Weight of Yesterday

But that dream had felt so real. I remembered Marcus at nineteen, still raw from his mother’s funeral, his father already remarried before the casseroles had even cooled. The whole neighborhood showed up with food—chicken and green bean bakes lined up like silent mourners. Everyone whispered about how quickly Mr. Caldwell moved on. The world felt tilted, like nothing was sacred anymore.

In Maple Heights, family comes down on you like a ton of bricks. I’d hear it at Murphy’s Market or from the church pews: “He’s just doing what’s expected, bless his heart.” Marcus carried that weight, always trying to be the perfect son, even when it was crushing him.

If even the mayor can’t escape the stranglehold of tradition, what hope did Marcus have? Maple Heights is a place where everyone knows your business, and expectations are as thick as the autumn fog.

I still see his face in my mind—sorrow carved deep as we sat on the old swings behind the rec center. His voice shook: “Natalie, I’m really not doing well.”

Hearing that nearly broke me. The world got so quiet, like the hush before a Michigan blizzard. I wanted to be his safe place, the one he could lean on when everyone else let him down.

So I promised I’d marry him. No fireworks or movie moments—just a whispered vow, sealed with the gentle squeeze of his hand. Even as my parents fretted that I was too young, I knew it was right.

After our backyard wedding, we became the couple everyone admired. Twinkle lights in the apple trees, paper plates piled with barbecue, neighbors and cousins dancing under the stars. Even the mayor’s wife in her pearls told us we were destined for big things.

Marcus went off to serve overseas, but he never forgot me. I still keep his letters—creased and yellowed—in a shoebox under my bed. He wrote about sandstorms, missing home-cooked meals, always ending with, “Kiss the kids for me. Tell Natalie I love her.”

I ran the household, hosted the ladies’ book club, did everything to keep Marcus’s path clear. Some nights, folding laundry after the kids were asleep, I’d marvel at how far we’d come. PTA meetings, bridge games, answering calls for Marcus—I did it all, trying to be the anchor our family needed.

When Marcus got his medal from the governor, the ceremony was a blur of applause and camera flashes. The governor called me “graceful and great at making friends,” but the words stung—a compliment that reminded me my real worth was in how I made Marcus look. I forced a smile. Only Marcus noticed how my jaw clenched and my hand lingered on his arm just a beat too long.

But Marcus loved me, more than anything. Even our son and daughter couldn’t compare. He’d come home late, exhausted, but as soon as he saw me, everything else melted away. He’d scoop me up in a bear hug, cover my eyes, and press a searing kiss to my lips—like we were the only two people in the world. We’d laugh about it later, popcorn in hand, the kids giggling from the hallway.

Even as our hair turned white, Marcus never looked at another woman. At his retirement party, he only had eyes for me—friends joked we were still newlyweds. And before I died, he shed that single, burning tear.

Now, that memory was all I had left. I watched him from across the room—different, distant, a stranger. The ache in my chest told me I’d lost more than just a life.