Chapter 1: The Breaking
1906words
I slice through the ripe tomato with precision, each piece falling into perfect, identical rounds on my cutting board. Wiping my hands on my apron, I glance at the kitchen clock: 6:15 PM. Tom will be home in forty-five minutes—if he keeps to his promise this time.
Fifteen years of marriage have taught me not to count on it.
My kitchen gleams around me—stainless steel appliances reflecting the warm pendant lights, marble countertops polished to a shine, and everything in its designated place. Our house in Westport, Connecticut was featured in a local home magazine last spring. "Suburban Perfection," they'd called it. The photographer had asked me to stand by the kitchen island, smiling as though I'd just finished baking cookies instead of directing the housekeeper on where to dust.
I adjust the flame under the simmering sauce and inhale the rich aroma of garlic and herbs. For our anniversary dinner, I've decided on Tom's favorite—osso buco with saffron risotto. The meal requires precise timing, attention to detail, and patience, much like our marriage.
I reach for the wine bottle and pour myself a second glass of Cabernet. The alcohol warms my throat as I swallow, dulling the edge of anxiety that has been my constant companion these past few years.
My gaze drifts to the small sketchbook tucked beneath the mail on the counter. I bought it three weeks ago during a rare trip into the city, along with a set of charcoal pencils that remain unopened. A small act of rebellion, or perhaps hope.
With the sauce simmering, I allow myself five minutes. I open the sketchbook to a half-finished drawing—the view from our back patio, the old oak tree casting shadows across the manicured lawn. My strokes are hesitant and unpracticed. Nothing like the confident lines I used to create in my studio at École des Beaux-Arts.
Paris. Sometimes it feels like a dream I once had, rather than three years of my life.
My fingers move to the delicate gold chain around my neck, finding the small pendant that hangs there—an antique locket with intricate engravings of the Paris skyline. Inside is a tiny scrap of paper with my grandmother's handwriting: *Pour retrouver ton chemin*. To find your way back.
The timer chimes, pulling me from my reverie, back to the perfect dinner for my imperfect marriage.
By 7:30, the candles have burned down an inch, the risotto is keeping warm in the oven, and Tom's chair remains empty. I check my phone again—no messages. I send another text: *Dinner's ready. Are you on your way?*
The blue dots appear, disappear, then reappear.
*Sorry. The meeting ran long. Start without me. 30 min tops.*
I set the phone down carefully as if it might shatter like my evening plans. I've seen this message, or variations of it, hundreds of times before. The disappointment is familiar, almost comfortable in its predictability.
I blow out the candles.
When the front door finally opens at 8:45, I'm sitting at the kitchen island, the elaborate meal still untouched, my third glass of wine nearly empty.
"I'm so sorry," Tom says, loosening his tie as he enters. His suit is expensive, his haircut precise, his expression the practiced contrition of a man who has delivered this apology many times before. "The Westchester deal is falling apart, and Richardson needed the whole team to—"
"It's our anniversary," I say quietly.
Tom pauses, his briefcase halfway to the counter. "That's... today? I thought it was next week."
"Fifteen years, Tom." I gesture to the dining room, where the unlit candles and formal place settings are visible. "Fifteen years today."
His face falls, genuine regret flashing across his features. "Lily, I'm sorry. I completely lost track. Let me make it up to you—we can go to that new restaurant in town this weekend."
"The one we were supposed to try three months ago?" I keep my voice level, controlled. The perfect suburban wife doesn't raise her voice. "Before your business trip to Chicago?"
Tom sighs, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. At forty-two, he's still handsome, the slight lines around his eyes only adding character to his face. The face I fell in love with at twenty-three when possibilities seemed endless.
"What do you want me to say? I'm trying here. The bank doesn't run itself."
"And this house doesn't run itself either," I reply, standing to retrieve the plates from the warming drawer. "Neither does our marriage."
Tom's phone buzzes in his pocket. He glances at it, then back on me, caught in the familiar tug-of-war between work and home.
"Go ahead," I say, setting his plate at the island rather than the dining room table. "It might be important."
He hesitates, then checks the message. "It's just Richardson following up." He puts the phone away and sits down at the counter. "This looks amazing, Lil."
I watch as he takes a bite, closing his eyes in appreciation. "Incredible as always."
"I've been thinking," I say, not touching my food. "About taking some art classes again."
Tom nods absently, reaching for his water glass. "That sounds nice. The community center has those weekend workshops, right?"
"I was thinking something more serious. There's a studio in the city that offers intensive programs. Former instructors from RISD and Pratt."
He looks up, fork pausing midway to his mouth. "In the city? That's a long commute for a hobby."
The word lands between us like a stone.
"It's not a hobby, Tom. It was my career. Or it would have been if I hadn't—" I stop myself.
"If you hadn't what? Married me?" His tone sharpens. "I never asked you to give up painting."
"No, you just made it impossible to continue. Moving to Connecticut for your job. Starting a family right away—which never even happened." The last words emerge more bitterly than I intended.
Tom sets down his fork. "That's not fair. We both agreed on those decisions. And the fertility issues weren't anyone's fault."
"I know that," I say, softer now. "But somewhere along the way, I lost myself. Do you even remember my paintings? Have you ever asked why I stopped?"
"Of course, I remember. The landscapes, the Paris scenes." He gestures vaguely. "But people change, Lily. We grow up. Take on responsibilities."
"Is that what happened to us? We grew up?" I touch my necklace again, a habit when I feel adrift. "Because it feels more like we grew apart."
Tom's phone buzzes again. This time, he doesn't even pretend not to look at it. "Richardson needs these numbers tonight. I'm sorry, but this deal is crucial for the bank."
"And what about what's crucial for us?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Tom is already standing, meal half-eaten. "Let's not do this now. I'll make it up to you this weekend, I promise. We'll talk about your art classes then."
"My art classes," I repeat. "You still don't get it."
"What don't I get, Lily?" Frustration edges into his voice. "That you're bored? That suburban life isn't fulfilling enough? I'm working sixty-hour weeks to maintain all this." He gestures around the perfect kitchen.
"I never asked for all this!" The words burst from me, surprising us both with their intensity. "The magazine-perfect house, the country club membership, the charity galas. I wanted a partnership. I wanted children. I wanted to create something meaningful—with my art, with our life together."
"What you wanted was security," Tom counters, his voice rising to match mine. "You were the one who panicked when the gallery didn't sell your work. You were the one who said we needed stability before starting a family."
The truth in his words stings. Have I surrendered my dreams so easily? Has fear guided my choices more than I want to admit?
"I need air," I say suddenly, grabbing my car keys from the hook by the door.
"Lily, come on. It's pouring outside." Tom gestures toward the windows, where rain lashes against the glass. "Let's just calm down and talk about this rationally."
"Rationally," I echo. "That's always your solution, isn't it? Be rational. Be practical. Be sensible. When was the last time you were passionate about anything, Tom? About me?"
His silence is answered enough.
I grab my coat from the closet, my fingers instinctively checking that the necklace is still in place around my throat. The pendant feels unusually warm against my skin.
"Don't wait up," I say, pulling open the front door. The rain immediately soaks my hair, but I hardly notice.
"Lily, this is ridiculous. Where are you even going?" Tom calls after me.
I don't answer, just slam the car door and back out of the driveway, tires squealing slightly on the wet pavement. In the rearview mirror, I can see Tom standing in the doorway, his figure growing smaller as I drive away.
The rain intensifies as I navigate the winding roads of our affluent neighborhood. Tears blur my vision, mingling with the raindrops on the windshield. Fifteen years. How have we gone from passionate art students in love to strangers sharing a perfect house?
My grandmother's necklace seems to pulse against my skin, almost hot now. I touch it with trembling fingers, remembering the day I received it, just before leaving for Paris.
*"This has been in our family for generations,"* my grandmother had said, clasping it around my neck. *"They say it has a way of guiding lost souls home."*
Home. Where is that now?
The windshield wipers struggle against the downpour, and I realize I've driven to the old coastal road that runs along the edge of town. The ocean churns below the cliffs to my right, violent and beautiful in the storm.
A memory surfaces—my last painting before I packed away my supplies. A stormy seascape, waves crashing against rocks, both destructive and cleansing. Tom had called it "depressing." I never picked up a brush again.
The necklace burns against my skin now, almost painfully hot. I gasp, taking one hand off the wheel to touch it.
In that moment of distraction, my headlights illuminate a deer frozen in the middle of the road.
I swerve instinctively, too sharply. The car hydroplanes on the wet asphalt, spinning toward the guardrail that separates the road from the cliff's edge.
Time seems to slow. The car slides sideways, tires finding no purchase on the slick road. The guardrail approaches, metal gleaming in the headlights.
In these suspended seconds, I feel a strange calm. The necklace pulses once more against my skin, and I hear my grandmother's voice as clearly as if she were sitting beside me: *Pour retrouver ton chemin*.
The impact comes with a deafening crash of metal against metal. The airbag explodes in my face as the car crumples against the guardrail, teetering precariously on the edge of the cliff.
Pain blossoms across my chest. The taste of blood fills my mouth. Through the shattered windshield, I can see only darkness and rain.
As consciousness begins to slip away, my fingers find the necklace one last time. It no longer burns but seems to glow with a soft, golden light.
My last thought before darkness claims me isn't of Tom, or our perfect house, or even the argument that drove me out into the storm.
It's of Paris. Of sunlight streaming through tall windows onto a canvas. Of possibility.
Of home.
