Emma awoke the next morning with the same sense of numb resolve that had carried her through each day for years. The slant of pale morning light across her bedroom walls signaled the start of her duties. She turned her head toward Michael, who was still asleep, his back turned toward her as always. His breathing was deep and even, a rhythm she found herself envying. The ease with which he disconnected from the world — from her — was a skill Emma had never mastered.
Slipping out of bed, she moved quickly and quietly, dressing in the soft blues and whites that Michael once told her he liked. She knew he probably wouldn’t notice anymore, but the habit stuck. Emma caught her reflection in the mirror — the fine lines around her eyes, the tiredness that no amount of sleep seemed to erase. She smoothed her hair back and forced a smile, a mask she had perfected over the years.
Downstairs, the house was quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator. Emma set the table with the practiced grace of someone who could do it in her sleep. Plates, glasses, utensils, each placed with precision. The kettle whistled, breaking the silence, and she poured Michael’s coffee, careful to add just the right amount of cream.
As she prepared breakfast, the scent of sizzling eggs and toasting bread filled the kitchen. It was a small comfort, one of the few sensory pleasures left in her day. She worked quickly, thinking ahead to the next tasks: Abby’s lunchbox, Oliver’s favorite snack, the load of laundry waiting in the hamper. Each task fell into line like soldiers in formation, an endless march of responsibilities.
The children were up soon after, their sleepy faces brightening when they smelled breakfast. Abby walked into the kitchen, already chattering about the school project she was excited to present. Emma listened with a practiced ear, her eyes darting between the stove and her daughter. She responded in all the right places, her voice filled with the warmth Abby craved.
“Can you help me with my hair, Mom?” Abby asked, holding a hair tie in her small hand.
“Of course, sweetheart. After breakfast,” Emma said, setting down a plate in front of her daughter. Oliver tumbled in next, rubbing his eyes and dragging his blanket behind him. He climbed onto his chair, tiny legs swinging as he reached for his food.
“Good morning, my little man,” Emma said, leaning down to kiss his head. Oliver giggled, a sound that pierced through her exhaustion like sunlight through fog. Moments like this reminded her why she kept going, why she maintained the facade of the perfect wife and mother.
Michael entered the kitchen moments later, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. His eyes flicked to the table, noting the neatly prepared breakfast, then shifted to Emma.
“Morning,” he said, his tone neutral. It was neither warm nor cold, just a placeholder greeting. Emma smiled, offering him the mug of coffee she had prepared.
“Morning, Michael. I made your eggs the way you like,” she said, her voice soft, expectant. He took the coffee but didn’t comment, instead sipping it as he reached for the newspaper. Emma’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she caught herself, turning quickly to help Oliver with his juice box.
As breakfast wound down, Emma moved from task to task, clearing plates, wiping spills, and reminding Abby to pack her project into her school bag. It was a finely orchestrated dance, one she performed daily without pause. And yet, as she watched Michael glance at his watch and fold his newspaper, a familiar ache spread through her chest. The effort she put into their life — her life — was seamless, invisible. It was the air they all breathed, unacknowledged and taken for granted.
Michael set his cup down, the sound sharp against the table. “I have a meeting tonight, so I’ll be late,” he said, already turning to leave.
Emma nodded, suppressing the disappointment that flared in her. “All right. I’ll save you dinner,” she replied, even though she knew he wouldn’t touch it. By the time he came home, the dinner would be cold, untouched, like so many nights before.
With Michael gone and the children off to school, the house once again became Emma’s domain. It was pristine now, everything in its rightful place. Yet the silence felt heavy, pressing down on her until she couldn’t sit still. She moved from room to room, straightening the throw pillows, dusting surfaces that were already clean, busying herself to drown out the voices in her head.
“A good wife maintains her home,” her mother’s voice echoed in her memory. “A good wife keeps her husband content.” Emma could almost see her mother, back ramrod straight, hands busy with her embroidery as she dispensed her wisdom with unyielding certainty. Elaine had been the embodiment of duty, her entire existence built around maintaining the perfect family image. Emma had absorbed those lessons like a sponge, believing that happiness came from sacrificing herself at the altar of family obligations.
But now, standing alone in her immaculate living room, Emma felt the weight of that sacrifice. The relentless pursuit of perfection had left her hollow. She had become what her mother wanted, what society expected — the perfect wife, the flawless mother — and yet, it was never enough.
The day crept by, the minutes blurring together as Emma completed her list of chores. The vacuum’s roar drowned out the nagging voice in her head, but only temporarily. The moment she turned it off, silence swept in like a tide, carrying with it all the doubts and fears she tried so hard to ignore.
It was during lunch, when she sat alone at the kitchen table, that the weight of her efforts hit her hardest. She picked at a salad she didn’t want, her appetite long buried under layers of stress. The stillness of the house mocked her. She thought of Lisa’s offer from the day before, the cookies that still sat untouched on the counter. The idea of reaching out for companionship felt foreign, almost forbidden. Good wives don’t complain. Good wives don’t need.
But Emma did need. She needed to feel seen, valued. She needed someone to notice the effort behind the clean counters and warm breakfasts. She needed someone to care that she, too, was more than the roles she played.
A sharp knock on the door startled her, and for a moment, hope flickered — perhaps Lisa had come back, or a friend she hadn’t seen in months. But as she peered through the glass, her shoulders slumped. It was the delivery man, dropping off Michael’s latest online order. The package was small, marked with a designer label she recognized. A new watch, maybe, or cufflinks. Something that would add to Michael’s collection of luxury items that Emma never touched.
She signed for the package and set it on the hall table, staring at it for a moment longer than necessary. The contrast between what Michael valued and what she did couldn’t have been starker. For him, a perfect life was measured in tailored suits and expensive accessories. For Emma, it was the fleeting moments when her family didn’t take her for granted.
The evening came, and with it, the familiar rush of homework, baths, and bedtime routines. Emma moved through each task like clockwork, answering Abby’s questions about school and reading Oliver his favorite bedtime story. The small voices of her children, bright with questions and innocence, were both her solace and her prison. They didn’t know how much of her was given away each day just to keep their world spinning smoothly.
As she tucked Abby in, her daughter looked up at her with wide eyes. “Mom, why do you always look tired?”
Emma froze, the question piercing through her carefully constructed composure. She forced a smile, brushing a stray curl away from Abby’s forehead. “Just busy taking care of everyone, my love,” she whispered.
“Do you ever take care of you?” Abby’s words were like a stone dropped into still water, rippling out in ways the little girl couldn’t understand.
Emma pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead, unable to answer. The truth felt too heavy to share, even in the safety of the dimly lit room.
When the children were finally asleep and the house had settled into its night-time stillness, Emma sat in the darkened living room, the quiet pressing in from all sides. The question Abby had asked looped through her mind. Do you ever take care of you?
The answer was as silent and suffocating as the house itself.
Unbound: Emma’s Rise – Chapter 2: The Weight of Invisible Chains
