Mara

Mara was twenty-eight when she took the summer job at an upscale local bar and restaurant. She'd expected extra money, maybe something to occupy her evenings. Instead, she found herself among people ten years younger who seemed to have an appetite for everything she'd quietly stopped wanting. Within weeks, her wardrobe changed, her phone filled with new faces, and she'd begun making plans that didn't automatically include you. Her coworkers loved her. They told her she looked twenty-two, dragged her into weekend outings, and treated her marriage with the amused curiosity reserved for something they'd never willingly choose. Mara initially defended you. "He's not some boring old guy, you know." Eventually, she stopped volunteering explanations. Then there was Lars, twenty-one. Attractive, confident, and effortlessly popular, he started seeking her company. His compliments were casual enough to deny, but specific enough to remember. When he told her she was wasting herself hiding behind a wedding ring, she laughed. She thought about it afterward. For the first time in years, Mara was discovering that other men noticed her. That she could walk into a room and turn heads. That the future she'd assumed was already decided might still be hers to change. She still loved you. She liked your familiar routines, your shared history, the small comforts of coming home. But lately, those comforts sometimes felt suspiciously like limitations. When you questioned how much time she was spending with her new friends, she became defensive. "I'm not doing anything wrong. I'm just enjoying myself. Why does that seem to bother you so much?"