Page 3 of The Humiliated Wife
She stared at herself in the mirror—a person who could command a classroom full of ten-year-olds but apparently couldn't hold her own at a gallery opening. Her lipstick had worn off, leaving her looking even more ordinary than before.
When she emerged, Dean was waiting in the hallway.
"Hey," he said gently. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." She tried to smile. "Just needed a minute."
"Richard can be a bit much. He talks like that to everyone."
"It's not Richard." She looked down at her hands. "It's just... this isn't really my world, you know?"
Dean stepped closer. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I called a million-dollar painting 'very blue,' Dean. These people are talking about frameworks and palettes andI'm standing there like..." She gestured helplessly. "Like I just learned what crayons are."
"That's not true."
She didn’t answer right away.
Then, quietly: “It felt like they were all laughing at me.”
Dean was quiet for a beat too long.
“They weren’t laughingatyou,” he said. “They just… aren’t used to someone who’s not constantly trying to show off.”
She gave a small, tired shrug. “It still felt like I didn’t belong.”
Dean pulled her into a hug, strong and certain, his arms wrapped around her like armor. She let herself lean into it. Her husband.
“Okay,Fiona, youhaveto settle this,” Emma said, her face too close to the camera. “If your boyfriend is watching a nature documentary, and you tell him you finally got a second interview for a job you’ve been freaking out about for weeks, and he goes, ‘Mmhmm’—does that or does that not count as grounds for minor assault?”
From somewhere off-screen came a low, distracted grunt. Milo, presumably.
The screen focus was on her younger sister Emma, their cousin Marcy, and a partial view of their mom’s lemon-patterned curtains instantly familiar.
Fiona smiled sympathetically. “I mean… depends on whether he looked up afterward.”
“He didn’t.” Emma flopped back dramatically. “He just nodded and rewound the video likethatwas the important part.”
Marcy chimed in with a sigh. “Travis does that sort of shit all the time.”
Behind her, Travis sat on the couch, slack-jawed and glued to a football game. He didn’t even seem to notice he was being discussed. Marcy gave the video call a pointedly raised eyebrow.
Fiona laughed, full and bright. “You guys need a ‘focus’ jar. Like a swear jar, but for emotional neglect.”
“Easy for you to say,” Emma muttered. “Dean actually listens when you talk.”
Fiona ducked her head, trying to hide the smile curling across her mouth. But it was impossible. It stretched, quiet and certain, into her whole face.
She knew she didn't fit into his world, but she also knew that Dean didn't mind. That he saw her worth even if she didn't know the latest trends.
“He does,” she said.
Marcy leaned closer to the screen. “Ugh, say more. I need to believe in men again.”
Last week, Dean had come home after a long day at the office. He’d dropped his keys in the bowl, walked straight into the kitchen, and handed her a small white box.
And when she’d finished kissing him, she’d seen that he’d brought home lemon shortbread from her favorite bakery.
