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BARBARA

T he aroma of beef and onions filled the kitchen as I stirred the stroganoff, mesmerized by the sporadic bubbles that bloomed and popped as the creamy sauce simmered.

Frankie giggled as he sat near my feet, banging his wooden spoon against the linoleum floor. I glanced down at him, his cherubic face a reminder of the love that kept me tethered to this life. But even as I smiled at my son, I couldn’t shake the restlessness that had taken root in my heart.

Frank was slouched in the sage-green armchair in the living room with his legs crossed in a figure-four, his eyes glued to the evening paper.

The ice cubes clinked in his glass as he took another sip of whiskey, the golden liquid refracting the light from the overhead fixture.

The newspaper rustled as he turned the page.

In the background, a radio announcer droned on—a somber news report about the ongoing tensions in Korea.

Frank hadn’t said a word to me since we got home, and he’d barely spoken to me when I picked him up from work. He said he’d had a rough day, but it felt like a block.

I longed for him to look up, to see me. But he didn’t.

I stirred the stroganoff, then pulled the skillet off the heat to rest. My thoughts drifted back to lunch at Perino’s. To the way Victor looked at me with those piercing dark eyes, like he could see straight into my soul. The way his words danced around me, enticing and unsettling.

The memory sent a flutter through me, followed quickly by a sharp pang of guilt.

I shouldn’t be thinking about another man like this, especially not my employer and my husband’s business associate.

But there was something about him that drew me in.

The way he spoke of dreams and possibilities—his smooth-as-silk words had awakened a yearning buried deep inside me.

I busied myself with setting the table, the clink of silverware against china plates cutting through the stillness. I plated dinner for Frank and me and cut up the noodles and beef strips into a toddler-friendly size for Frankie.

I absently twisted my wedding band around my finger as I stared at the plates, no longer seeing them. Instead, I saw the curve of Victor’s lips as he smiled at me across the table, the way he gestured with understated confidence as he described his vision, the heat of his hand holding mine…

The sudden swell of music from the radio snapped me back to the present. I blinked, my surroundings coming back into focus—the yellow floral wallpaper, the hum of the refrigerator, Frankie’s babbling.

“Dinner’s ready,” I called out as I picked Frankie up from the floor, settling him on my hip and taking him to the table.

Frank grunted in response, folding the newspaper and tossing it onto the coffee table.

He switched off the radio and lumbered into the dining room, the floorboards creaking under his heavy steps.

As he settled into his chair, his gaze flitted over the meal before him, never quite meeting my eyes.

“Stroganoff again?” he muttered, picking up his fork.

A flare of irritation burst to life in my chest at his uncharitable tone, but I tamped it down and forced a smile. “I thought it would be nice to have something hearty after a long day,” I said mildly, sliding Frankie into his high chair.

Frank shoveled a forkful of noodles into his mouth. I watched him chew, his jaw working mechanically. The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy, broken only by the clink of utensils against plates and Frankie’s occasional babbling.

“How was your day, darling?” I asked.

“Fine,” Frank said flatly, not looking up from his plate. He stabbed at a stack of noodles and beef strips with his fork and shoved the bite into his mouth, his teeth clicking against the fork.

I waited for him to say more, but he just kept eating, his eyes fixed on his food. I suppressed a sigh and turned my attention to Frankie, cutting his beef into smaller bites.

“My day was lovely. Thank you for asking…” The words slipped out before I could stop them, laced with a bitterness I hadn’t intended.

Frank’s fork paused halfway to his mouth, his eyes finally meeting mine.

For a brief moment, I saw a flicker of surprise in their blue depths, quickly replaced by a harsh glare and a set jaw.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice low and tight.

I immediately regretted my petty jab, but the frustration that had been simmering all evening bubbled over. “Nothing. It’s just…you didn’t even ask about my first day at work.”

Frank set his fork down with a clatter and leaned back in his chair. “I thought we agreed you would just help out for a bit. Not make a career out of it.”

“It’s hardly a career, Frank. It’s a temporary secretarial position.” I tried to keep my tone light, but an edge crept in anyway. “I don’t understand why you’re so opposed to me working. It’s only part-time, and the extra money will really help.”

Frank’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s not about the money, Barbara. It’s about you being out there, exposed to all kinds of unsavory characters. I don’t like it.”

My fingers tightened around my fork, the metal biting into my palm. “Victor has been nothing but professional and respectful. He’s a successful businessman, not some shady criminal.”

“Oh, so it’s Victor now, is it?” Frank’s eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a mocking tone. “Getting awfully chummy with the boss on your first day.”

Heat rose in my cheeks, a mix of anger and something else I didn’t want to acknowledge. I held Frank’s gaze, refusing to look away. “Don’t be absurd,” I said, my voice tight. “Mr. Cardello is my employer, nothing more. I’m simply trying to do my job well.”

Frank scoffed, shaking his head. “Yeah, I bet he’d love for you to ‘do your job well.’” His words dripped with insinuation. My stomach churned.

I set my fork down, my appetite gone. “That’s enough, Frank. I won’t sit here and listen to you insult me.” I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping against the hardwood floor.

Frankie began to whimper, startled by the irritated voices and my sudden movement. I scooped him up and hugged him close to my chest as I turned to leave the room.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Frank demanded.

I paused in the doorway, my back to Frank. “I’m going to put our son to bed,” I said, trembling slightly. I didn’t wait for his response, striding down the hallway to Frankie’s nursery.

The pale blue walls and soft yellow curtains did little to calm me as I changed Frankie into his pajamas, my hands still shaky as I fumbled with the tiny buttons. He was quiet as he looked up at me with curious eyes, almost as if he could sense my disquiet. Maybe he could.

I sighed as I picked him up and settled into the wooden rocking chair. Holding Frankie close, the gentle creaking thrummed through my body as I rocked back and forth. He nestled his face against my chest and sighed deeply.

A lullaby—the same one my sister, Edith, used to sing to me when I was a little girl—danced gently on my lips.

When I had nightmares, she—not Mother—had always been the one to soothe and comfort me back to sleep.

The melody wrapped around us like a warm blanket, and Frankie’s breathing deepened and slowed as he drifted off to sleep.

I envied his peaceful slumber, wishing I could escape into dreams as easily. But my thoughts were tangled tonight.

As I rocked Frankie, my mind drifted back to my lunch with Victor.

The way he had looked at me—really looked at me—as if he could see straight into my soul.

The way he spoke about my potential, about the things I could do if I just had the chance.

It was intoxicating, that feeling of being seen and understood.

But then there was Frank’s reaction, the suspicion and jealousy simmering beneath his words. The way he had insinuated that Victor only wanted me for…for what? My looks? My body? The very idea made me feel dirty, tainted.

I glanced down at Frankie—his face relaxed in sleep, his tiny hand clutching my blouse—and a fierce love surged through me. This was my life now. This was what I had chosen when I married Frank. A husband, a child, a home to keep. It was what I should want, what any good wife and mother would want.

The sharp slam of the front door shattered the quiet of the nursery like a gunshot. I flinched, my arms instinctively tightening around Frankie’s sleeping form. He stirred, his rosebud lips puckering in a sleepy pout, but he didn’t wake.

I held my breath as the heavy tread of Frank’s footsteps stomped down the porch steps. The crunch of gravel signaled his path to the driveway, and then the all-too-familiar rumble of the Plymouth’s engine roared to life.

He was leaving. Again. Off to some watering hole to drown his sorrows and nurse his wounded ego in cheap whiskey and the sympathetic ear of whatever barfly would listen. Leaving me alone with a toddler, a sink full of dishes, and a swirling mind.

As the rumble of the car’s engine faded into the night, I let out a shaky breath. Silence settled around me like a shroud, broken only by the soft ticking of the nursery clock and Frankie’s gentle sighs.

I carefully stood up from the rocking chair, my legs stiff from sitting. I placed a soft kiss on Frankie’s mop of messy, straw-colored hair before lowering him into his crib. He barely stirred as I tucked his favorite blue blanket around him, his little fingers clutching the satin edge.

I paused, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, marveling at the perfect innocence of his sleeping face. What I wouldn’t give to have that kind of peace, that blissful oblivion.

With one last glance at Frankie’s slumbering form, I quietly closed the nursery door. The hallway stretched before me, the floral wallpaper muted in the dim light. My shoes scuffed softly against the hardwood until I reached the dining room.