chapter 2: Morning after

Evelyn’s POV

The kettle whistled before I was ready for it.

My head hurt the kind of dull ache that came from holding too many expressions for too long. I stood by the kitchen counter, still wearing last night’s nail polish and a ring that felt tighter than it used to.

Sunlight crawled across the marble. The house was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant slam of a door upstairs.

My son was awake. Nathan had come home from college two nights ago. He was twenty now, and everything I said was wrong. He was taller than his father, quieter too. He used to sit here every morning, asking if I could make his eggs the way I used to. Now, he just passed through like the echo of someone I used to know. Now he wouldn’t come down for breakfast. He rarely did anymore.

“Nathan!” I called, pouring water over the tea bag. “You’ll be late again.”

No reply.

When I finally heard his steps, they were heavy, impatient. He appeared in the doorway, shirt half-tucked, hair uncombed. He looked tired. Or maybe just uninterested. There was something of Alfred in the tilt of his jaw an inheritance I wished he didn’t have.

“I’ll grab something on the way,” he muttered, brushing past me toward the door.

“I made pancakes,” I said too softly. He didn’t stop. The door clicked shut before the words finished leaving my mouth.

Silence again.

I set two plates anyway habit, I supposed. I ate alone, fork scraping against porcelain. The pancakes tasted like cardboard, but I ate them because I hated wasting things.

When the news played from the living room, I kept the volume low. Alfred’s name filled the screen, the segment replaying highlights from last night’s gala. He looked immaculate, rehearsed, untouchable. The camera caught him laughing beside Julia.

The caption read: “Governor hopeful Alfred Cole alongside radiant wife dazzled guests last night at the campaign fundraiser…” There was a clip of him smiling beside me. I looked perfect. I always did.

I let the fork rest, half-bitten pancake still on it. My throat tightened around the word radiant.

I turned off the TV.

Then I started cleaning. Not because the place needed it, or the cleaners didn’t do their job, but because it kept my hands busy.

The housekeeper came in. “Morning, ma’am.”

“Morning, Grace,” I said. “You can handle upstairs. I’ll do the rest.”

She gave me that look the one that said she knew I’d been up since dawn but she nodded and went.

By noon, I was at the Pilates studio, pretending I liked the burn in my muscles. The room smelled faintly of eucalyptus and rubber mats. Women around me stretched and breathed like they were made of silk and calm. The instructor called out, “Breathe through the pain!”

I almost laughed. I’d been breathing through pain for years.

Each pose burned, my thighs trembling, my stomach tight. If I could just look a little better, I told myself, maybe he’d notice again. Maybe Alfred would remember the woman who used to make his pulse quicken.

I could still hear Cynthia’s voice from last week — smooth, effortless, a little cruel. “Evelyn, darling, a little lift under the eyes, that’s all you need. You’ll feel like yourself again. Men love women who look radiant and youthful.”

I’d smiled and nodded. Later that night, I’d googled facelift recovery time while Alfred laughed at something on his phone. I’d considered it since he liked them younger, I thought I’d make myself be one again.

Later, I booked another round of skin treatments at the spa. I picked up a few new dresses online slimmer cuts, brighter colors. I stopped by a boutique and bought lingerie. Black lace. Soft as breath. Expensive.

I even texted Alfred: Dinner tonight? Just us?

He replied hours later: Meetings. Don’t wait up.

I deleted the message before I could start rereading it.

When I got home, I laid it on the bed, smoothing the straps with my fingertips. I stared at it long enough to forget why I bought it, then remembered all over again.

Grace knocked softly. “Ma’am? The dry cleaner dropped off Mr. Cole’s suit.”

“Thank you,” I said, folding the lingerie away before she could see.

The afternoon passed in fragments laundry, emails, a call from Clara asking for money for a school project. Alfred’s campaign posters arrived in heavy boxes by the gate, his perfect smile printed on a hundred glossy pages.

At sunset, I lit a lavender candle in the kitchen. They said it helped calm you down. I set the table again, even though I knew he wouldn’t come home early. I wanted the smell of food in the air something warm, something that felt like family.

When the clock hit nine, I poured myself a glass of wine and sat in the quiet.

That was when I heard the car in the driveway.

For one hopeful second, I smoothed my hair, checked my reflection in the dark window. Then the front door opened and closed with the soft, careless thud of routine.

He didn’t call my name.

Alfred walked straight to his office. I caught a glimpse of him tie loosened, jacket slung over his shoulder, phone pressed to his ear. He was smiling, but not at me.

I stepped into the doorway. “You didn’t eat.”

He covered the mouthpiece of his phone. “I already did. At the fundraiser.”

“Oh.”

“Long day, Eve. Don’t start.”

“I wasn’t starting,” I said, though I was.

He gave a thin smile. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

He disappeared into the office. The sound of his voice on the call faded behind the door lower now, almost tender.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door, wine glass trembling slightly in my hand. Then I drank.

The candle burned low. The lavender scent turned bitter.

Upstairs, I changed. The lingerie fit like a promise I couldn’t quite keep. The mirror didn’t lie it looked good. Maybe even better than I expected.

I walked back downstairs barefoot, heart pounding against my ribs like it was trying to escape. His office door was still shut, his voice still steady.

I pushed the door open just enough to lean in.

“Alfred?”

He glanced up. His eyes dragged down and then away too quickly. “Eve, what are you…”

“Thought I’d surprise you,” I said, forcing a small smile. My voice sounded like someone else’s.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You should sleep. I have to finish this call.”

“You’ve been working all day.”

“And I’ll be working all night if I want to keep this campaign alive.” His tone sharpened. “Please, Eve. Not tonight.”

The rejection landed quiet but heavy. I nodded, pretending I understood, and stepped back.

“Right,” I whispered. “Of course. You’re tired.”

He didn’t look up again.

I closed the door softly behind me.

I went upstairs, sat at the vanity, and began removing my makeup. Each swipe of the cotton pad felt like erasing a layer of someone else’s face.

When I was done, I studied my reflection the faint lines at the corners of my mouth, the soft sag beneath my eyes, the woman who kept hoping.

I whispered to her, “You can still fix this.”

But this time, my reflection didn’t believe me.