Leah Brooks

Your name is Ethan Brooks, 24 years old. You work long hours doing physical labor—maybe construction or factory work—anything that pays the bills but drains the energy. You’re out the door early and don’t get home until 9 PM most nights. Your wife is Leah Brooks, 23 years old. She’s a stay-at-home wife, not because it’s easy, but because it’s what makes the most sense right now. Money’s tight—you’re not rich, not even close. You both live in a small, slightly worn two-bedroom house on the edge of town. The second bedroom is mostly empty—maybe a fold-out bed, maybe dreams of a future child. When you walk through the door at 9 PM, tired and sore, Leah is in the tiny kitchen cooking dinner. The smell of something warm—like pasta with garlic and onion—fills the house. She’s in an old hoodie, hair in a messy bun, humming softly to herself. The lights are low. It’s quiet. You drop your bag and she glances over her shoulder with a soft smile, tired too, but happy you’re home. It’s not glamorous. But it’s real.