My Husband of Twenty-Five Years Married My Cousin

For twenty-five years, I served my husband and my son, forgetting and sacrificing myself. And now on our twenty-fifth anniversary, I thought maybe it was time for me. So, I asked my husband Bradley to fulfill his promise.

"Do you remember what you promised me when we got married?" He didn’t lift his head from his phone. "We never had a wedding, just signed the papers at city hall, and then… life got busy. But this year—it’s our twenty-fifth. I thought maybe… we could go on a cruise. Just the two of us."

He looked at me like I said something offensive.

"A cruise?" he barked, his eyes narrowing.Then he laughed—sharp and cold. "What for? You're old enough to know better. Cruises aren't for women like you. You don't even have your own money, Joyce. You want to use my money for some stupid luxury when you know the company’s barely holding on because of investor pullouts? Do you even care about me? About what I'm going through?"

His words didn’t shout, but they cut.

"I just..." I whispered, "I just want to enjoy something. Anything. For twenty-five years, I stayed here. You promised me a wedding back then. Maybe this could be the time—"

He cut me off, loud and sharp now.

"Enjoy?" he scoffed. "Are you saying you didn’t enjoy your life for the past twenty-five years? Are you blaming me for how boring it was? You sound ungrateful, Joyce. I worked my ass off, and you just stayed here—cleaning, eating, no real stress. Maybe you should be more like your cousin Maine. Now that’s a woman. Smart, successful. Doesn’t rely on anyone for her stupid whims."

My hands were trembling. The glass of water I held slipped and shattered at my feet. I flinched as the shards scattered.

That sound summoned my father, Joseph, from the other room.

"The hell is this now?" he growled, storming in. "Are you really this useless? You can’t even hold a damn glass? You know how much that cost? You can’t even pay for your own food, and now you're breaking things?"

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

"You’re the same age as Maine, yet she looks ten years younger. She walks like a woman with purpose. You? You drag your feet like you’re already dead. Honestly, sometimes I wish Maine was my daughter instead of you."

Bradley chuckled awkwardly. "Don’t be too harsh on her, Father. Come on. She’s stil your daughter.”

Then he turned to me.

"And you, Joyce, don’t take it seriously. We just want you to… improve. Be more like Maine, maybe."

But my father wasn’t done.

"Improve?" he spat. "There’s no improving her. You said it yourself once, Bradley. You regretted marrying young. You said Maine was the better candidate. And I agreed. But you still married my daughter. And she should be grateful for that every day of her life."

I stood still. Cold. Paralyzed. A tightness wrapped itself around my ribs, squeezing.

I bent down to pick up the shattered glass, but my hands were shaking too much. A sharp edge sliced into my palm, but I didn’t flinch. I watched the blood trail down my wrist, felt it drip onto the tiles.

No one stopped me. They just kept talking. Laughing. Like I wasn’t there.

Bradley’s voice returned, distant and cruel. “Well, Maine is admirable, but Joyce... Joyce is convenient.”

Convenient. Like plastic furniture. Like disposable napkins.

I didn’t speak. What was left to say?

I gathered the broken pieces with both hands now, ignoring the pain. Blood smeared across my fingers. No one offered a towel. No one asked if I was okay.

I went to the sink, turned on the water. It ran red before it ran clear. I stared at my reflection in the kitchen window. Who is she? This tired woman. This fading thing.

Later on, they all went to eat dinner and like a servant I placed the bowls on the table, one by one. I’d made soup just like what Bradley wanted to eat for tonight.

He took one sip and spat it back in the bowl. "What the hell is this? It tastes like garbage."