Vera's POV

I had learned long ago that love was conditional. At least the love that was given to me.

My parents, Vincent and Angela, were not cruel in the loud, violent way some parents were. Their version of cruelty was colder, silence as punishment, shame wrapped in sugar, and affection traded for obedience. If i cried too much, they said I was “dramatic.” If I disagreed then I was “disrespectful.” And when I needed comfort and support, my mother would tilt her head and say, “Is this how you’ll behave when you get to your husband’s house?”

So when Andrew criticized me, when he shut me down or mocked my choices and ideas, something inside my said this is normal. This is love, my kind of love.

That weekend, I had gone to pay my parents a visit out of obligation. Sunday lunch was a family tradition. Andrew hadn’t come, he always found an excuse to avoid it, and for once, i was glad.

“You’re still too soft, Vera,” my mother said, picking at the salad with practiced elegance. “You don’t argue, but you also don’t control the house.”

“I don’t want to control anything,” I said, her voice quiet.

“You should,” my father cut in. “A woman’s power is in how her husband sees her. If he doesn’t respect you, that’s on you.”

I stirred the soup in my plate. “I try dad. I cook, I take care of the home, i don’t nag him.”

“That’s not trying, that’s surviving,” my mother said with a sigh. “Andrew is a man Vera. You have to manage him. Learn how to hold his attention.”

My father shook his head, while scoffing. “Back in my day, women knew how to keep their husbands close. Now it’s all feminism and laziness.”

I stared down at my food, throat tight. “So… if he cheats, it’s my fault?” I asked the question that had been weighing on my mind for a while now.

Both my parents turned and looked at me like I had asked something absurd.

“If he goes to other women,” my mother said slowly, “then you need to ask yourself why. Men don’t just wander for no reason. You would have to have been the reason.”

I nodded numbly expecting the answer. It was always my fault. Never his. That was the lesson and the golden rule of every wife.

As i drove back home, the conversation kept playing in loops in my mind. It was the same every time , the constant pressure to bend, to be smaller, to take blame as a badge of honor. Sometimes, i wondered how my mother lived with herself, how she was able to peacefully sleep at night. But maybe she had been bent so long, that she thought the shape was normal.

That night, Lara came over to the house uninvited, as she always did. I had thought Andrew would have been furious when she first started it but she was the only one he allowed without any stress. He often told me how much of a good friend Lara was and how much I should learn from her.

“Hey, babe,” Lara sang as she walked into the living room, her pencil heels clicking on the tiles. “Is Andrew at home? I didn't see his car outside.”

“No. He went out with some of his work friends,” I replied while folding the laundry on the couch.

Lara laughed as she plopped down in the couch beside me “Does that man ever take you anywhere?”

I forced a smile. “He’s busy.”

“Mm. And you’re just here being his little house mouse. Honestly, I admire you. I couldn’t do it. I need attention.” she said flipping her hair.

I smile cracked for a while but I pretended like nothing had happened. “its not a big deal, like taking care of him.”

“You mean he likes being taken care of,” Lara said, moving closer to me, legs crossed. I couldn't help but stare at her. She wore a skintight mustard dress that hugged every curve like a second skin. Her makeup was flawless. Her ride scented perfume left a trail in the air.

I glanced down at my own worn T-shirt and leggings. I felt invisible.

“You know,” Lara said, tilting her head, “Andrew told me last week I’m the kind of woman who commands a room. That I ‘light it up.’”

I paused in place. “He said that to you?”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Lara said, smiling. “It’s not like he meant it like that. He was just saying I have presence.”

I nodded and folded another shirt. “He never says things like that to me.”

“Well,” Lara said, leaning in, “you’re… subtle. You’re not a ‘wow’ kind of girl. You’re the safe type. And there’s nothing wrong with that! You’re like… like warm soup. Comforting and familiar.”

I stared at her, trying to decide whether that was a compliment or an insult wrapped in sugar. But I was probably overthinking it, Lara was my best friend and she was really blunt.

“Anyway,” Lara continued, checking her nails, “you should come out with me sometime. Get a new dress. Let Andrew see what he’s missing. Or... what he already has, but takes for granted.”

“He doesn’t like me wearing flashy things.”

“So?” Lara grinned displaying her pearly white teeth. “Wear it anyway, then maybe he’ll stop looking elsewhere.” she mutter that last part underneath her breath.

The silence between us thickened. I stood and began gathering the laundry basket.

“Where are you going?” Lara asked.

“To hang these. I need to set the ingredients for Andrew's lunch for tomorrow.”

Lara sighed dramatically. “You’re too good for him, you know. But also… maybe not enough. Does that make sense?”

It did. Too good but still not enough. That was the summary of my whole life in a single sentence.

After Lara left, I sat in the laundry room, surrounded by neatly the folded clothes and the soft scent of detergent. I slid down to the floor and cried quietly.

Not because Lara was cruel, but because she was right.

Vera's POV

“I was thinking,” I said while clutching the phone in my hand tighter, “maybe I could plan something for our anniversary this year. Something simple… but special.”

On the other end of the line, my mother made a disinterested snort. “What’s wrong with just making a meal at home?”

“I want to do more,” i said insisting. “Maybe book a hotel dinner, dress up. It’s been tense lately, and...”

“Tense?” my mother cut me off. “Marriage isn’t a fairy tale, Vera. It’s work. If he’s moody, find out what you’re not doing well and then you fix it.”

I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat and my mother's accusing tone. “This is me trying to fix it.”

“You’re too emotional,” my mother said sharply. “That’s why men get tired. Just cook, clean, look pretty. Let him rest when he gets home. Don’t overthink it.”

“Okay,” I said quietly. “Thanks mom.”

“Let me know if you need help with the food.”

I didn’t mention the hotel again. There was no point doing that. She would be against it as always.

After the call, i sat in silence for a long time. My hands were trembling, not from fear, but from exhaustion. Emotional exhaustion and the weight of this relationship. I was tired of proving that I was worth the effort. Effort that he never showed her, love that her stopped expressing.

But still… i tried, I tried to love enough for us both. I decided for the first time in a long time, I would take over one decision. I will plan my anniversary my way.

I went to the boutique first, alone. The women at the counter barely looked up at me when I walked in, until I moved toward the mannequin in the window, a deep red satin dress with a high slit and a back that dipped low enough to make me second-guess my decision.

“You want to try that one?” one of the ladies asked, blinking while she came forward.

I straightened up trying to hide my nervous expression as much as I could. “Yes.”

I guess it didn't work because the woman gave me a pitiful smile. "Don't be scared okay, just try out the dress."

I nodded blankly and moved towards the rooms that the woman pointed out.

Inside the changing room, I slid the dress over my skin carefully, slowly like it was fragile enough to break. It fit my figure like liquid. My breath caught in my throat as I stared at the woman in the mirror's reflection, stunned. The woman staring back had soft curves, light brown skin that glowed in the red light, and wide, expressive brown eyes that didn’t look dull anymore. It was the first time in years I didn’t look invisible. I look..... beautiful.

For a moment, I smiled, a genuine one.

Back at home, I waited until Andrew came out of the shower before speaking. His towel was draped carelessly over his shoulder, and his attention was already on his phone.

“I was thinking,” I said carefully moving closer to him, “next weekend, for our anniversary, we could have dinner. Just the two of us. What do you think?”

He didn’t even look up from his phone. “We’ll see.”

“It’s important to me,” I added, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. “Please, Andrew. I already have a venue in mind. I just want us to talk. Laugh, maybe… just take a break and reset.”

He sighed dramatically. “Fine do as you wish. Just don’t make it a whole production.”

Relief flooded my chest and happiness spread through my body. “Thank you. I’ll handle everything.”

And I did.

That week, I had became a woman on a mission. I booked a suite at a quiet, elegant hotel, the kind with soft lighting and cream tablecloths with gold trimmings. I pre-ordered his favorite wine. I planned the exact playlist the restaurant’s saxophonist would play. I had hired a decorator to set the mood with gold candles and rose petals. Every night, after Andrew had gone to bed, I sat at the dining table sketching layouts, checking prices, emailing vendors. I was going full out for this surprise. It was like I was injected with chicken blood.

He never asked what I was doing.

I still did my normal chores, I cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, ironed his shirts. But this… this dinner felt like a small flame. Something to look forward to. Something to hold onto, and I wasn't going to let anything ruin it.

On Friday afternoon, just moments before our anniversary, I had booked for myself a full-body spa session, a facial, a brow touch-up, and the hair appointment I hadn’t had the courage to make in nearly five years. I went to the salon nervous, clutching the photo of the hairstyle I had saved months ago but never shown anyone. Everyone would have insulted my choice but now I could do the style I wanted.

The stylist raised a brow when she saw my natural hair tucked into an old scarf. “You sure you want this? It’s a bold look.”

“I’m sure,” I nodded. “Make it bold. I haven't had bold in forever."

Everything took a whole five hours. My nails were shaped and painted a glossy wine red with glitter at the tips. My brows were cleaned and perfectly arched giving me a wild edge. My face practically glowed with new life. And my hair, layered, coiled at the ends, gently highlighted, framed my face like a crown.

When the stylist turned me toward the mirror,I couldn't help but gasp. I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me.

I looked... beautiful. Not “pretty enough.” Not “decent.” Beautiful. Alive. Worthy.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I blinked them away before they could fall.

The stylist smiled. “You’ve got someone to impress, huh?”

I smiled faintly, my voice soft. “You could say that.”

I stepped out of the salon , my new heels clicking against the sidewalk, my dress bag slung over my arm. People glanced at me as I passed by . Not because she was flashy, but because she was glowing with something unexpected.

For the first time in years, I felt seen and Andrew would see me as well. In a few hours, everything would change for the better. I didn't have the slightest clue about the shock I would receive in just a few hours.