Nobody's Wife, Nobody's Mother

After ending his phone call, my husband, Nathan Brooks, turned to me and said without the slightest hesitation, "Nora, Vivie needs to get back to our hometown for Thanksgiving. There's no room for her in the car if you come, too. Just take the train."

I stopped folding the clothes in my suitcase and stared at him. "Sorry—what?"

Apparently, he thought I hadn't heard him the first time.

With an impatient sigh, he repeated himself. "The car seats five. Once Vivie comes along, every seat will be taken. You can get a train ticket. It won't make much difference."

Vivian Hartley had been Nathan's childhood sweetheart.

If she hadn't married someone else, he probably never would have let her go.

Instead, he'd married me—the woman who had loved him quietly for years.

I'd once believed that, given enough time, I could earn a place in his heart that belonged to me alone.

Maybe, eventually, he would stop looking back and start seeing the wife who stood beside him.

But everything had changed after Vivian divorced her husband and moved back to Ashford.

A bitter laugh escaped me. "So you really want me to take the train?"

Nathan looked at me as if I were being difficult for no reason. "What's wrong with that?"

Rather than raise my voice, I asked him calmly, "Have you forgotten who your wife is? Whose name is on your marriage certificate?"

His expression darkened. He slapped a hand against the table and glared at me.

"Nora, what are you implying? I'm only asking you to take the train. What, do you think you're some rich heiress who can't possibly travel like everyone else? Is getting on a train going to kill you? Other people manage just fine. Why can't you?"

People who feel guilty are often the first to start shouting.

This wasn't the first time Nathan had snapped at me because of Vivian.

Watching him cover his unease with anger, I felt only a deep, familiar disappointment.

All the years I'd spent trying to make him happy, bending over backward to accommodate him, suddenly seemed pointless.

I set down the clothes in my hands. "Fine. I'm not going with you. Have a nice trip."

My answer caught him off guard. After a moment, his voice softened.

"Nora, you know Vivie's always been delicate. She'd feel sick being cooped up on a train. My parents are getting older, and Milo's still little. You're the only one who can reasonably take the train. I'm sorry to put you out."

"You've always been understanding, Nora. You get why I have to do this, don't you?"

"And if you take the train, you'll avoid the holiday traffic. You could even get to the old family house ahead of us and tidy it up before everyone arrives. It works out perfectly."

How thoughtful of Nathan. He was protecting Vivian's health, sparing his aging parents and young son from discomfort, and making sure they would arrive at a clean, welcoming house.

I was the only person whose comfort didn't matter.

And underneath all those excuses was the real reason he wanted me to go ahead: he expected me to clean the house.

Something inside me finally went quiet. Whatever love I still had for Nathan died in that moment.

"If there's no place for me in the car," I said, "why should I bother joining you at all?"

My refusal quickly wore through his patience.

"What are you making such a big deal out of? We're going back with my parents to pay our respects to the family ancestors. What will people think if their daughter-in-law refuses to come?"

I stared at him, speechless. He was the one telling me to stay behind, yet somehow I was the one making trouble.

Our son had heard him, too.

Milo came over, his head lowered as he asked, "Mommy, aren't you coming with us? Who's going to make my food?"

Nathan immediately seized on the question. "Exactly. Are you planning to let our son go hungry?"

It hit me then: to Nathan and Milo, I wasn't a wife or a mother with feelings of my own. I was the person who cooked their meals and kept their lives running.

I managed a strained smile. "Then let Vivian take the train."

Nathan opened his mouth to argue, but five-year-old Milo beat him to it.

"Mommy, Aunt Vivie is so pretty. How could you make her ride the train?"