Never to Meet Again

Aurelia’s POV

Friday will mark seven years of my marriage to Grant Ashford.

Seven years of holding a home together with my bare hands. Seven years of reminding myself that love was supposed to feel worth it. I wanted that day to be beautiful, perfect for him and for Oliver, our five-year-old son.

I folded the last shirt, smoothing out the faintest crease before hanging it neatly in the closet. My feet ached, but there was no pause, no room for rest. I moved straight to the kitchen, tying my apron tighter.

Grant doesn't like frozen meals or anything that hints of convenience. Everything had to be fresh, steaming from the pot, plated with care. My eyes flicked nervously to the clock on the wall as I chopped, stirred, wiped and repeated.

Then came the sound of tires crunching against the driveway.

I wiped my hands on a towel and hurried to the sitting room. The door swung open and Grant stepped inside with Oliver at his side. My smile lifted automatically, my arms half-open for an embrace I already knew wouldn’t come.

He brushed past me. His polished shoes thudded against the floor as he kicked them off carelessly, sending one skidding beneath the couch. Without a word of greeting, he dropped his briefcase onto the couch with a dull thud.

“Is dinner ready?” His voice was clipped, already impatient as he tugged his tie loose.

“It’ll be ready in a bit,” I promised.

“I wonder what you do all day. Hurry.” He said and stalked toward the stairs.

I swallowed the sting and turned to Oliver, my little boy. “How was school, love?” I asked with a warm smile.

But Oliver mimicked his father instead. His small bag hit the floor with a dull thump. He kicked his shoes off without care and padded away in silence.

The smile on my lips faltered. For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the chaos they left in their wake. Then, as always, I bent down, gathered the mess, and returned everything to its proper place. My body moved out of habit.

This was my life, seven years of being a perfect housewife in a mansion that gleamed like glass yet felt like a prison. No staff, no help. Grant had insisted no outsiders be allowed in his home. So I scrubbed, I dusted, I polished, I cooked. Every single day. And still, nothing was ever enough.

On Friday, Oliver had a short day at school. I asked Grant to bring him home afterward for the lunch I’d been planning in honor of our anniversary.

Grant only nodded, distracted as always, before leaving with Oliver for school and then heading to the office. I poured my entire morning into preparing the meal. The kitchen filled with the buttery scent as I worked.

I roasted a golden-brown turkey. I whipped the mashed potatoes until they were cloudlike. A bowl of creamy Dungeness crab chowder simmered on the stove.

I tossed a fresh sourdough salad with avocados, cherry tomatoes, and a drizzle of balsamic. For a side, I baked artichoke hearts with breadcrumbs and parmesan with soup, and I prepared a plate of delicate garlic noodles.

It was a spread meant for celebration, meant to remind my husband of home, family, and love.

I had bought balloons the previous day at the supermarket, white and gold, and I tied them above the dining table. Fresh flowers from the florist in town stood in a vase at the center carefully arranged.

By the time I finished, the kitchen was a mess, but I made sure to scrub it clean. Everything gleamed. Everything was perfect. At exactly three o’clock, the front door opened.

But when Grant and Oliver walked in, they weren’t alone, they came with Selene.

“Hello,” she purred.

Her lipstick was red, her eyes perfectly lined. She wore a short, scarlet dress that clung to her like a second skin, her cleavage nearly spilling free.

I froze, a plate still in my hand. My eyes darted to Grant, desperate for explanation.

He gave me an irritated look, as though I were the intruder here. “Oliver invited her over for the lunch you kept emphasizing,” he said flatly, tossing his shoes aside.

“Yes, I want her here,” Oliver chimed in quickly, without even looking at me, before disappearing upstairs.

The sting in my chest was sharp, but I swallowed it down. As always, I bent to pick up Grant’s discarded shoes and briefcase, taking them where they belonged.

After a while we finally sat at the dining table. Grant sat opposite Selene, while I was across Oliver. I quickly served everyone.

I sat back just when Grant’s lips curved at Selene in a flirtatious smile. Selene tilted her head like a cat who’d caught the mouse. My son clung to her arm, asking her to feed him.

“This food is cold,” Grant said after one bite, his tone heavy with disdain.

“I thought you’d be home earlier,” I said softly, because they're supposed to be home before two o’clock.

“So I should leave work and rush home because you’re cooking?” He asked, irritated.

I pressed my lips together, lowering my gaze to my plate. My heart pounded so loud I barely heard the clink of his fork.

He twirled a forkful of noodles, tasted it, and grimaced. “Too much garlic,” he announced.

His critique continued, dish after dish, nothing was right, nothing was enough. He condemned my efforts with every bite, while Selene’s smirk lingered at the corner of her lips.

I bought him a new tie, navy silk with a subtle pattern, chosen after weeks of saving from the household budget. I slid the box toward him, hoping to cut short his criticisms. He opened it, glanced at it, and scoffed.

“It’s my anniversary gift,” I said quietly.

“What kind of local tie is this?” he asked.

He had brought me nothing. He never did.

“Just be useful and warm the soup,” Grant ordered. Tossing the tie aside as if it were trash

I took the soup back into the kitchen, and stood there for a moment, staring at the steam curling up from the pot. When it was warm enough, I carried it back out, only to find Grant’s gaze fixed on Selene’s cleavage.

The three of them were laughing together. In that moment, I didn’t feel like a wife or a mother. I felt like a servant, an outsider in my own home, watching another woman take my place.

Grant’s voice cut through the air. “My wife isn’t like you, Selene. You’ve got a sharp mind for business. She’s just a housewife, cooking is supposed to be her job. And yet, she can’t even get that right.”

Selene smiled, trailing her fingers along her chest. “Well, you know me,” she purred. “I’m a baddie.”

Grant chuckled. “At least tell me you’re enjoying the meal?”

She gave a light shrug. “I can’t complain.”

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to steady my breath before walking over to serve the soup.

“My teacher said Sunday is visiting day at school,” Oliver piped up suddenly. Then, as if the words were harmless, he added, “But Mom isn’t as pretty as Selene.”

I froze.

And then, as if twisting the knife deeper, he said, “My classmates will laugh at me if they know my mom is just a housewife. Selene, will you be my mom instead?”

The word mom hit me like a slap. My hand trembled, and the bowl slipped from my grip. The soup spilled, splashing onto Selene’s bare thighs. She gasped sharply, but thank heavens, it hadn’t been boiling.

Grant rushed to her side, snatching a napkin and pressing it to her skin. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice tight with concern. Then he turned to me, fury blazing in his eyes.

“Why are you so dumb? Can’t you get a single thing right?”

“I… I didn’t mean to,” I stammered, my voice barely a whisper.

Oliver moved closer, his small hands tugging at Grant’s sleeve. “Daddy, Mommy hurt Aunty Selene! Don’t let her spoil her pretty body!”

Grant’s glare deepened. “Apologize to her. Now.”

“What?” I breathed, stunned.

“If you won’t, then get out!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the dining room.

I stumbled backward, my heart pounding, as I watched my husband and son drawn to Selene like moths to a flame, while I stood there, unwanted in my own home.

I quietly returned to the kitchen. I pulled off my apron and pressed it against my mouth to muffle the sound of my sobs.

When I gave birth to Oliver, I nearly died from the complications. I quit my job to care for him because Grant said that’s what a good mother does.

I have lived with the scars of that birth, with the endless doctor visits, the failed treatments, the ache of a womb that could not give Grant the daughter he demanded.

I risked my life bringing Oliver into this world, and now he called another woman Mom. His voice echoed in my skull like a blade, cutting me from the inside out. I wasn't even bored by anything else, just my son calling another woman “mom.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. Wiping my face with the back of my hand, I slipped out the back door, away from the laughter at the table, and stepped into the cool air of the evening alone.