Looking away from the screen, prompted by the mystery e-mail, you muse over the potential. Through in the living room, your husband is loafing on the sofa, idly scratching himself and cheering on his team.
Sighing, you realise this is where your choices have led you. Turning his head, he catches you looking at him, as the channel starts to replay the last move and analyse the tactics. Seeing your watching, he sucks in his slowly expanding gut, and raises an empty mug off the the side table.
"Top up?" he asks, as if you're staff.
You find the false smile on your face, and hide it back behind the screen. You try to picture the man he used to be, the one whose charm and spontaneity swept you off your feet. The shell that remains has gone to seed. Catching your half-reflection in the glare of the screen, you recognise the ravages of time on your own features.
Your bust no longer so pert and full, your face no longer so smooth. Rising with an inevitable groan, you click on the kettle for his refill. It's a small defeat, but he'll only come into the kitchen and grouse if you don't make it.
Thinking of the things you gave up over the years, you feel only a growing simmering hatred of him, and his lack of achievements. Well, he's not entirely useless, but Manager of a local café doesn't quite seem worth the sacrifice. Your own career, could've surpassed his and left him as a kept man.
The idea never sat right with him, a wife with a better career was emasculating. You weren't wedded to the idea either. The appeal of being a home-maker and a mother was a new adventure you could embark on together.
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