Eventually, Veronica stopped pretending. She criticized my cooking, my cleaning, my priorities. She said Andrew deserved better than frozen dinners and a wife who was always busy. Andrew nodded. Sometimes he repeated her words to me later, framed as concern.
I lasted a year.
Then came her birthday dinner. Same house. Same laughter. After dessert, Veronica stood, arm around Andrew, and toasted him. She wished him children soon. Wished him a wife who understood her place. A wife who stopped acting single. The room went quiet. Everyone looked at me. Andrew gave me a warning glance.
And something inside me finally settled.
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