Tear to wither away

Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Cracks in the Facade

Vincent’s disinterest grew palpable. He criticized Anne’s cooking—“This chicken’s dry again”—her outfits—“Why do you always wear that ratty sweater?”—even her art. “Why don’t you get a real job?” he’d snap after a long day, loosening his tie like it choked him. Anne felt invisible, her once-vibrant spirit fading like watercolor left in the sun. At a company holiday party, she stood awkwardly in a corner, clutching a glass of cheap champagne, while Vincent worked the room. She overheard two agents whispering near the cheese platter: “Vincent’s been cozy with that new girl in marketing. What’s her name—Aria? Young thing. Legs for days.” Anne’s stomach dropped. She smiled tightly, excused herself to the bathroom, and cried in a stall, mascara streaking like war paint.

That night, alone in bed while Vincent snored beside her, his back turned, Anne wept silently into her pillow. The sheets smelled like his cologne and someone else’s perfume. She thought of the girl she used to be—the one who danced in the rain at football games, who believed love was enough. Where had she gone?

Her neighbor, Mrs. Harlow, noticed Anne’s sadness during their garden chats. The old woman, bent but spry, tended her roses with religious devotion, snipping deadheads with silver shears. “Come, dear, have some lemonade,” she’d call over the fence. They’d sit on her porch swing, rocking gently, Max—the golden retriever from down the street—sprawling at their feet. “Marriage is a garden,” Mrs. Harlow said one afternoon, offering a plate of oatmeal cookies. “It needs tending. Water, sunlight, pruning the bad bits. Your Vincent—he’s letting weeds grow.” Anne nodded, throat tight. “I don’t know how to fix it.” Mrs. Harlow patted her hand. “Start with yourself, love. The rest follows.”