The first sound of the morning was not birdsong.
It was the sharp, burning crack of flesh against flesh.
Three slaps landed across Karen's cheek in quick succession hot, stinging, humiliating. The force snapped her head sideways, and for a moment, the world tilted. Her ears rang. Her vision blurred. The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth.
She did not scream.
She never did.
Tears slid silently down her face, soaking into the collar of her threadbare dress. Her hands trembled around the wooden spoon she had been using to stir the omelet on the stove. Her fingers were numb from the cold. The kitchen was freezing, but she had been awake since two in the morning, scrubbing floors, washing clothes, preparing breakfast trying to make everything perfect for a man who never looked at her.
Christopher.
He stood in front of her like a storm contained in human skin tall, rigid, eyes cold and sharp, his presence filling the room with pressure. His face was twisted in disgust, as if the sight of her alone offended him.
"How many times," he roared, his voice echoing through the house, "will I tell you not to mix my orange juice with ice cubes?"
Karen flinched.
Her shoulders curled inward, instinctively protective. Her body remembered pain even before it came.
"You should always make sure my orange juice is chilled before I come downstairs," he continued. "Not diluted. Not ruined. Properly chilled."
Her lips trembled. Her face burned where he had struck her. Her eyes stung with tears she refused to let fall too fast.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. Her voice was barely sound. "I forgot to put it in the refrigerator last night. I just"
"Every day," Christopher snapped, cutting her off, "you have excuses. Every single day."
Karen's knees felt weak.
She had lost a baby days ago.
Her body was still healing. Her heart was still bleeding. Her strength was gone but the chores had not stopped. The house did not care that she was broken. Christopher did not care that she was hollow inside.
The cold crept into her bones as she stood barefoot on the tiled floor. The draft from the open window gnawed at her toes. Her arms felt heavy. Her head throbbed.
"Why are you so useless?" Christopher demanded.
She opened her mouth to speak.
"Shut up," he barked. "Don't talk. You always embarrass yourself. I don't even know why I married you in the first place."
His words cut deeper than his hands ever could.
"You're getting boring," he added, his tone dripping with contempt. "Day by day."
Karen's tears finally fell.
"I'm sorry," she sobbed, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "I won't do it again. I promise."
Christopher picked up his briefcase.
She followed him, panic flaring in her chest.
"Please," she begged softly, "just take a bite. Eat something before you go. I don't want you to be hungry."
He scoffed.
"And who are you trying to impress with that pathetic act?" he said. "Make sure my beetroot is ready when I come back. And make honey bean soup. I don't want to start requesting food in my own house."
"I understand," Karen whispered quickly. "Everything will be ready."
Christopher walked out.
He didn't look back.
The car was already waiting downstairs.
The door closed.
Silence swallowed the house.
Karen collapsed onto the couch, her body folding in on itself. Her sobs tore out of her chest in broken sounds that filled the empty space. Her whole life felt like a cage built of love she couldn't escape.
Christopher was the only man she had ever loved.
The only man she had ever known.
She couldn't imagine a world without him. Couldn't imagine where she would go. What she would become. Who she would be.
Her mother's voice echoed in her head, soft and firm, like a sentence passed by fate itself:
Marriage is not easy, my child. You suffer first, so you can enjoy later.
Karen had believed her.
She had held onto those words like scripture.
She had endured.
She had obeyed.
She had waited.
And waited.
And waited.
By 2 p.m., the honey bean soup was ready.
The house smelled warm and heavy with spices.
Karen wiped her hands on her apron and exhaled shakily. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but she forced herself to stand straight. She had learned how to hide pain. How to swallow humiliation. How to survive in silence.
Then,
the door slammed open.
Her heart dropped.
Christopher walked in.
He was not alone.
Sylvia was with him.
The woman who haunted Karen's sleep.
The woman whose name felt like poison in her mouth.
The woman who owned Christopher's smiles.
The air shifted instantly.
The house changed temperature.
Karen felt it in her bones.
Her fingers clenched.
Her chest tightened.
She forced a smile that felt like broken glass on her lips.
"Hi, Sylvia," she said softly.
Sylvia laughed.
"Don't smile," she sneered. "You look ugly when you do."
Her eyes swept over Karen's dress, her apron, her bare feet.
"Don't infect my beauty with your misery."
Christopher looked at Karen with cold, empty eyes.
"Get out of my sight," he said.
No shouting.
No anger.