4
The bitter taste triggered a wave of dizzinc–
<
I slept for two days straight. On the third
morning, I woke up in my familiar bed.
Everything looked the same. I was still,
technically, the lady of the house. I glanced at
the clock: 7:35 AM. Panic surged. I jumped
out of bed, rushing to make Ethan’s favorite
breakfast.
Mid–stride, I froze. What was I doing?
Maternal instinct, a powerful force. But
beneath it, a strange revulsion simmered.
Ethan’s perpetually sullen face, his seven-
year rejection… it disgusted me. He was
nothing. I should have had a dog.
I turned back, flinging open the bedroom
windows – windows I’d kept shut for years, a
symptom of my self–imposed isolation.
Sunlight streamed in. I squinted, looking out at the rose bushes I’d planted. Vibrant,
colorful, bursting with life. I remembered Mark holding me close, whispering, “Lily, you’re my rose. You bloom in my life, filling it with beauty.”
Nausea twisted in my gut. How sickeningly sweet. Back then, it had brought tears to my eyes. Now, it made me gag. I wasn’t anyone’s rose. I was my own damn rose. I wouldn’t bloom for anyone but myself. A thrill of liberation coursed through me. The elixir was working. I practically skipped to my vanity table and started rummaging through my makeup. I hadn’t bothered with it in vears
く
Mark never took me out anymore, and Ethan
wouldn’t let me near his school. I’d become a
recluse, indifferent to the luxuries I once
enjoyed. Now, my interest was piqued.
Thirty minutes later, I stared at my reflection. Hair up, lips a vibrant red, a striking resemblance to my roses. Lily Morris, still got it. I raided my closet, trying on designer dresses I’d never worn, gifts from… who
knows? I settled on a white dress, perfect for a rose. Beautiful.
Lily Morris, definitely still got it. A flicker of memory surfaced: I used to love white
dresses. Mark loved them too. He said I
looked most beautiful in the white dress I
L
wore playing piano at our college talent show.
After we married, I kept wearing them, just
for him. Until Amelia showed up, hair up,
white dress… and I became the stand–in.
I chuckled, heading up to the third–floor
music room. The housekeeper kept it
spotless, but I hadn’t touched the piano in
years. Not since Amelia. I ran my fingers over
the keys, a strange sense of detachment
washing over me. The door opened. “Hey! You’re awake? Where’s breakfast? I’m going to be late for school,” Ethan grumbled.
5
