Wives Behind The Scene

Maya Above the aggressive crackle of the frying meat, a sharp, piercing wail sliced through the house. It came from the living room—the unmistakable, breathless cry of a hungry infant. My shoulders tightened. I leaned toward the kitchen doorway, raising my voice to carry over the noise. "Hey, Calvin? Please help me with the baby." The house remained quiet, save for the escalating cries from the bassinet. There was no shift in the air, no heavy footsteps on the hardwood, no muffled response from the master bedroom down the hall. "Calvin?" I called again, louder this time, the strain evident in my throat. Nothing. I let out a slow, steady breath to keep my chest from tightening. Turning down the burner slightly, I reached for the dish towel hanging from the oven handle. I wiped my hands with a frantic, aggressive motion, shedding the grease before pulling at the strings of my denim apron then I left it draped over the kitchen chair as I hurried out to the living room. The baby’s face had turned a sharp, angry crimson, his tiny fists bunching the air. I leaned over the bassinet, smoothly scooping his fragile weight into my arms. The heat of his small body pressed through my shirt. Moving to the armchair near the window, I sat down and unbuttoned the front of my blouse, guiding him to nurse. Instantly, the sharp wails melted into soft, rhythmic snuffles. The sudden silence in the room felt heavy, almost suffocating. As the baby settled, I leaned my head back against the cushion, looking toward the open door of the hallway. "Calvin," I called out, keeping my voice level but firm, knowing he was awake inside the bedroom. ""Calvin," I called out, keeping my voice firm, knowing he was awake. "We need to talk about groceries. I need to restock the pantry, and I still need to make those dinner reservations you asked for. The pocket money you dropped for upkeep last week is gone. Diapers, formula, produce—everything is almost finished." From the bedroom, Calvin’s voice finally drifted out. It was smooth and perfectly modulated—his press-junket tone. "What do you even use money for, Maya?" he asked with casual amusement. "You’re home all day. Every time I look around, the fridge is full and sss boxes are piled by the door. Where does it all go?" A cold sensation settled in my stomach. "Well, if you actually allowed me to work, I wouldn’t be asking you for money," I snapped. Before he could answer, a small weight tugged at my trousers and two-year-old Marvin crept up beside the chair, clutching an empty plastic plate. "Mama," he mumbled. "Mama, food." "Just a second, sweetie," I whispered, trying to shift the baby without breaking his latch. But Marvin persisted, his little fingers digging into my thigh. "Mama, food! Eat!" "I know, baby. Give Mommy one minute." Then, a sudden spike of adrenaline hit me as a thick, acrid scent drifted into the living room—scorched meat and burning flour. The chicken. "Oh, s**t," I muttered. I had totally forgotten I left the gas on, and I needed to get to the stove before the smoke detector started blaring. I tried to ease the baby away from my breast to lay him on the sofa and the moment his head left my warmth, he let out a furious shriek. Startled, Marvin screamed too, dropping his plastic plate with a loud clatter. "Mama! Food! Mama!" he yelled, grabbing my legs and blocking my path. The noise multiplied, bouncing off the high ceilings of our expensive, empty home. "Calvin! Please a little help here!" I shouted over the din. The bedroom door finally clicked open and Calvin stepped out, completely untouched by the chaos. He looked spectacular in tailored charcoal trousers and a crisp white shirt, deftly working a silk tie into a flawless Windsor knot. He stopped a few feet away, looked down at the crying children, and raised an eyebrow. "What?" "Please feed Marvin," I begged, bouncing the screaming baby while nudging Marvin toward his father with my foot. "Just give him anything. I need to turn off the gas before the kitchen catches fire." Calvin didn't move. He adjusted his tie in the entryway mirror. "Can't you just do that yourself? I'm busy, Maya. I'm right in the middle of getting ready." "Well I would, Calvin, if the kitchen wasn't currently filling with smoke," I said, my voice dropping into a dangerous whisper of rising annoyance as I pushed past him and placed Marvin's plate in his hands."Just feed him. Please. Do this one thing." Without waiting for his response, I hurried into the kitchen and pushed the door shut behind me, desperate to isolate the noise and the mess. The air near the stove was thick with white smoke. The beautiful pieces of chicken I had spent twenty minutes prepping were now black, shriveled stones stuck to the bottom of the pan. I quickly turned the dial on the gas stove, watching the blue flame die. Taking a deep breath of the tainted air, I grabbed a spatula, scraped the ruined dinner out of the iron skillet, and threw the burnt pieces straight into the dustbin. I stood over the trash can for a long moment, watching the black crusts disappear under a paper towel, my hands shaking slightly. After some quiet moments, I smoothed my clothes, and pushed the door open, expecting to find Marvin with a snack. But instead, the living room looked exactly as I had left it. Calvin hadn't moved an inch. Marvin was sitting flat on the hardwood floor, sobbing from pure hunger. The baby in my couch hadn't stopped crying either. All this were playing out while Calvin stood near the exit, checking his reflection in the glass of a framed movie poster—one of his own. A heavy wave of exhaustion crashed over me. I didn't say a word. I couldn't. I just sank into the armchair, pulled the baby back to my skin to quiet him, and grabbed a container of children's crisps from the side table. "Here, sweetie," I whispered, pulling Marvin close. "Eat these for now." Marvin's tears disappeared, replaced by soft giggles as he crunched on the snacks against my knee. A shadow fell over the chair and I looked up. Calvin was standing over us, completely dressed now. His designer wool coat was draped elegantly over his arm, his luxury watch gleaming under the living room lights. He smelled of expensive cologne, cedarwood, and success. I stared at the pristine line of his coat, then down at my own stained blouse. "Where are you going?" "To work," he said simply, checking his phone. My brow furrowed. "Work? I thought you were on paternity leave. You told me you took two months off from your director to help me transition now that the baby is here. How am I going to handle two children under two by myself all day?" Calvin offered a small, easy smile—the kind he used on talk show hosts to charm the audience. "No, Maya. I'm not on leave. You are." "I don't work, Calvin," I whispered, the reality of it tasting like ash. "I don't have a job to take a leave from." "Exactly," he said, tucking his phone into his pocket. He leaned down, his movements fluid and unbothered. "You can handle it, babe. You always do. You're great at this." "No, Calvin, wait—" Before the argument could leave my lips, he leaned over and stopped me with a swift, firm kiss on the mouth. It was a perfect, cinematic kiss, timed to shut down any further discussion. "Don't worry," he murmured against my lips, pulling back with that blinding, movie-star smile. "I'll make it up to you." He reached down, gently tapping Marvin’s cheek, making our toddler giggle with a mouthful of crisps, then leaned over to press a soft kiss against the forehead of the baby sleeping at my breast. "I'll be back before midnight," Calvin called out, already turning toward the front door. "Don't wait up." The door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing through the quiet house. I sat alone in the center of the room, one child eating scattered crisps off the floor, the other heavy against my chest, while I stared at the empty hallway. And somewhere between the auditions I never attended and the dreams I quietly packed away while I helped him with his, something in me felt doubtful of if my choices were right or wrong.