The tension between Sarah and Linda was like a storm brewing over Willow Creek’s rolling hills. Sarah felt the weight of Linda’s constant criticism, but she tried to keep the peace for the sake of her family. Tom, however, wasn’t much help. The faint smell of his cheap beer hung in the air as he shrugged, his work boots scuffing the linoleum floor of their kitchen.
“Sarah, handle it yourself,” Tom said, his voice gruff. “I’m not wading into your mess.”
“But I’m your wife, Tom!” Sarah shot back, her hands clenched. “You’re supposed to have my back, not just sit there thinking about yourself!”
“I said I’m staying out of it,” Tom replied, his tone final. “Figure it out.”
Defeated, Sarah stormed off to their bedroom, her eyes stinging with tears. She’d always dreamed of a supportive husband, someone who’d stand by her side, but Tom saw his role differently. To him, providing for the family—fixing leaky roofs, unclogging drains, and repairing barns for local farmers—was enough. In Willow Creek, his handyman skills were gold, and he believed his paycheck made up for his emotional absence.
When Emma was born, everything shifted. Tom’s long days of manual labor started ending with a beer, then two, then a six-pack. Sarah noticed the change but felt powerless. One evening, she confronted Linda, hoping for an ally. “Why do you let Tom drink like this? You’re his mom!”
Linda, touching up her bright red lipstick in the hallway mirror, smirked. “That’s on you, sweetheart. You’re his wife—keep him in line. He’s drinking because you’re so dull. Look at you, in those Walmart clearance rack jeans and frumpy sweaters. If you spiced things up, maybe got another guy’s attention, Tom might snap out of it. Step up, or Emma’s gonna grow up thinking this is normal.”
“I’m busy raising Emma, making sure she’s healthy and happy,” Sarah protested, her voice shaking.
Linda snorted, eyeing her up and down. “With a mom like you, that girl’s got no shot. She’ll end up stuck here, just like you.”
Sarah retreated to her room, her chest tight with hurt. Linda’s words cut deep, painting her as a failure in her own home. Meanwhile, Linda, despite being in her fifties, refused to fade into the background. She kept her hair dyed blonde, wore flashy outfits, and flirted shamelessly at the local bar’s jukebox nights. She wasn’t afraid of aging—she was terrified of being alone. Every weekend, she’d drive to Columbus, hitting up Easton Town Center with friends who gifted her trendy clothes and makeup, chasing a spark she hadn’t felt in years.
One day, while shopping in Columbus, a man approached her. “Excuse me, ma’am, can you point me to Maple Street?” he asked, his gray eyes warm.
“Two blocks that way,” Linda replied, flashing a smile. “Big statue of a buckeye tree at the corner.”
“Thanks,” he said, lingering. “I’m Jack, by the way. You married?”
Linda raised an eyebrow, playful. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. You caught my eye,” Jack admitted, grinning.
“Well, I’m single and free as a bird,” Linda said, her voice light. “How about a coffee?”