Cracks Beneath the Smile
672 Words
Prisca told herself she was fine.
She said it every morning while tying her hair neatly. She said it while choosing dresses that looked gentle and respectable. She said it while smiling at people who praised her family, her children, her life.
She said it so often that the word lost meaning.
Because she was not fine.
She was unraveling—slowly, quietly, in ways no one applauded and no one noticed at first.
Except her children.
Sandra felt it before anyone else did.
That morning, Sandra spilled juice on the table by accident. Just a small splash, nothing serious. Prisca’s reaction came fast and sharp.
“Can you ever be careful?” Prisca snapped.
Sandra froze, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
Prisca sighed loudly, wiping the table with more force than needed. “Sorry doesn’t clean things up.”
The words hung heavy.
Sandra nodded and stayed quiet, her small hands folded in her lap.
Prisca saw the fear then. It flickered across her daughter’s face and vanished just as quickly. For a second, guilt tugged at her chest.
She ignored it.
Later, when her son asked for help with his homework, Prisca answered without looking up from her phone.
“Ask your father.”
“But Daddy isn’t home yet.”
“Then wait.”
Her tone was flat. Distant.
She hadn’t always been like this. She used to be softer. More patient. But patience required peace, and Prisca no longer had that.
At school events and church gatherings, she became someone else entirely.
She laughed too loudly. Hugged too tightly. Complimented people until it sounded forced.
“Such a perfect mother,” one woman said with a smile.
Prisca smiled back, wider. “I try.”
Inside, her stomach twisted.
Because she knew perfection was a mask—and masks crack when worn too long.
At the next charity event, Prisca arrived early. She wanted control. She needed to see everything before it surprised her.
Victoria was there.
Not standing out.
Not hiding.
Just… present.
Talking quietly with a woman Prisca didn’t recognize. Calm. Polished. Unbothered.
Prisca’s chest tightened.
She hadn’t imagined it.
Victoria wasn’t gone.
She was circling.
Prisca watched her the entire evening. Watched the way people leaned in when Victoria spoke. Watched how no one seemed rushed around her.
Watched how Gabriel noticed her again—just for a moment.
That was enough.
Later, while speaking with a donor’s wife, Prisca laughed at a joke she hadn’t heard fully.
The woman mentioned resilience. About women who survive difficult marriages.
Prisca smiled, then said it—too quickly, too sharp.
“Well, some women just enjoy being victims,” she said lightly. “If she wanted to be heard, she shouldn’t have been so weak.”
The words landed wrong.
Silence followed.
The woman’s smile faded. Her eyes sharpened—not with anger, but with judgment.
“That’s… an interesting way to put it,” she said coolly.
Prisca felt the shift immediately.
Too far.
She tried to recover, laughing softly. “I didn’t mean—”
But the woman had already turned away.
Prisca’s pulse raced.
Across the room, Victoria looked up.
Not because she heard the words.
Because she felt the energy change.
Their eyes met for half a second.
Victoria didn’t react.
That was worse.
That night, Prisca stood alone in the bathroom, gripping the edge of the sink. Her reflection stared back at her—still beautiful, still composed, but tired.
“She had won the marriage,” Prisca whispered to herself, “but she was losing the man.”
And worse—
She was losing control of the story.
From the hallway, she heard Gabriel’s voice. Calm. Low. Tired.
Not hers.
She straightened, washed her hands, and fixed her smile before stepping out.
But deep down, she knew the truth she had been avoiding.
Victoria wasn’t chasing them.
She wasn’t begging.
She wasn’t fighting.
She was watching.
And Prisca had never been more afraid of anyone in her life.
- Writer
