I used to think I was being supportive, but over time, I’d become something else—a servant in the shell of a wife. I forgot how to paint, how to live, how to be myself. The canvas in front of me was the first time I’d picked up a brush in three years.
Nathan’s jaw tightened. He looked at the painting, then at me, as if it were an insult. “You’re kidding me.”
He strode forward, grabbed the edge of the easel, and threw it aside. The canvas hit the floor with a thud, paint splattering across the wall.
“What the hell, Emerald?” he shouted, his voice shaking with rage. “You dare paint again? After I told you how useless that hobby is? You should be focusing on me—on your duties as my wife!”
I looked at him, my throat tight, my heartbeat loud. “I’m tired, Nathan,” I said, the words trembling out of me. “Do you understand that? I’m tired.”
He laughed—sharp, cruel, the kind of laugh that cuts you in half. “Tired? From what? Living comfortably? Being my wife? Have you forgotten what you signed up for when you married me? I am your husband! You just don’t get tired.”