Mary sat on the edge of Ruth's neatly made bed, staring at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. The woman who looked back at her was not the one she remembered. Her cheeks were hollow, her hair dull, her shawl wrapped around her like armor.
She looked like a ghost of herself.
The house around her was full of voices - her sisters' chatter in the kitchen, the sound of pots clanging, the drone of a radio - but inside, Mary felt only silence. The kind that pressed against her ribs and made her chest ache.
It had been months since she had left Daniel's house. Months since she had seen her children anywhere but in her dreams. And those dreams were cruel: Joshua holding her hand as he used to on the walk home from school, Grace braiding her hair with ribbons, Caleb falling asleep on her chest with his tiny hand curled around her finger.
She woke from those dreams with her face wet and her arms empty.
Her family told her the children were fine. "They're better off this way," Ruth would say, slicing vegetables with a steady rhythm.
But Mary knew her children. She knew the sound of Grace's tears when she was frustrated, the way Joshua went quiet when he carried more than his young shoulders could bear, the way Caleb would search for her even if she just stepped into another room. They were not fine. They could never be fine without her.
One afternoon, while Ruth was out, Mary slipped into the sitting room and switched on the small teCalebsion. The local news was playing. She barely heard the reporter's voice until a familiar name caught her ear.
"…Daniel Thompson's shop continues to see declining sales amid community suspicion following his wife's mysterious illness…"
Her breath caught. They were speaking his name on teCalebsion. Her Daniel. The man who had woken before dawn every day just to make her tea. The man who carried their children on his back when they were too tired to walk.
And they were dragging him through the mud because of her silence.
She switched off the TV quickly, her hands shaking. But the words clung to her. Suspicion. Decline. Mysterious illness.
That night, she lay awake listening to the house creak in the dark. Every sound reminded her of what was missing - the warmth of Daniel beside her, the children's soft breathing from the next room. She turned to the wall, pressing her fist against her mouth to keep from sobbing out loud.
The next morning, Ruth found her sitting at the table, staring blankly at her untouched plate.
"You're not eating again," Ruth said.
Mary lifted her eyes, and for the first time, her voice was sharp. "I want to see my children."
Ruth blinked, taken aback. "We've talked about this - "
"No." Mary's chair scraped as she pushed back from the table. Her hands trembled, but her words were steady. "I'm their mother. I need them. I can't breathe without them. Do you understand? I feel like I'm dying in this house."
For a moment, Ruth's mouth opened and closed, searching for an answer. But Mary didn't wait. She left the table, retreating to her room, slamming the door with a force that made the walls shake.
Inside, she sank onto the bed, clutching the shawl tighter. She realized then what she had refused to admit all this time: her family's voices had drowned out her own. She had allowed their suspicions to build a wall between her and the only man who had ever truly loved her.
And now, she feared, it was too late to climb back over.