One Shots (Every Centric)

Married Woman | 1

There are countless mysteries in life that elude my understanding—the intricacies of human behavior, the complexities of crafting a blanket from yarn. But amidst the uncertainty and confusion, there is one truth that remains crystal clear: I despise my marriage.

Every day feels like a relentless battle, a never-ending cycle of disappointment and disillusionment. The once vibrant colors of our love have faded into dull shades of gray, leaving behind a hollow emptiness that gnaws at my soul.

I long for the warmth of genuine affection, the kind that wraps around you like a comforting embrace and whispers promises of everlasting devotion. But instead, I find myself trapped in a loveless union, suffocated by the weight of unfulfilled expectations and broken dreams.

I yearn for freedom, for the chance to break free from the chains that bind me to this life of quiet desperation. But as the days turn into weeks, and the weeks into months, I find myself sinking deeper into the abyss of my own making, resigned to a fate that offers no escape.

And so, I cling to the flickering ember of hope that burns within me, daring to dream of a future where happiness is not just a distant memory but a tangible reality. But until that day comes, I am left to navigate the murky waters of my marriage, clinging to the hope that somewhere, somehow, I will find the courage to set myself free.

To suppress these emotions, I find solace in striving to be the perfect mother.

Book clubs, Facebook group chats, last-minute cookie baking for school bake sales, homemade orange juice, and an excessive amount of cleaning—these are just a few of the habits I've cultivated to maintain the facade of the perfect mother. Add in daily Pilates sessions, meticulous makeup application, and the artfully tousled curls in my hair that scream effortless beauty, and it's a recipe for exhaustion.

But if I were to let even one of these habits slip, the judgments would come pouring in. "You look tired, are you getting enough sleep?" or "You're slacking off, you never cook anymore." These comments have been hurled at me, straight to my face, and I'm expected to smile and nod, to offer polite thanks and apologies. It's a never-ending cycle of pressure to meet impossible standards, and every day feels like a repeat of the last.

Yet, beneath the facade of perfection, I'm suffocating. Each day feels like a relentless struggle to keep up appearances, to maintain the illusion of having it all together. Behind closed doors, I'm crumbling under the weight of expectations—my own and those imposed upon me by society.

Let me be clear—I adore my children. From my teenage son to my seven-year-old daughter, they are both the greatest joy and the most challenging aspect of my life.

In the early years of our relationship, I thought I loved my husband. He was affectionate, patient, and didn't pressure me into starting a family—at least, that's what I believed. At 27, nearing 30, he was my first and only serious boyfriend, and ultimately, my first husband. His success at a prestigious car dealership, his ubiquitous presence on billboards and advertisements, his gleaming white teeth (thanks to cosmetic dentistry), and piercing blue eyes—all contributed to his allure. Together, we brought two beautiful children into the world, a blend of white and Asian heritage.

But the spark that once ignited our passion fizzled out long ago. After the birth of our daughter, intimacy became a perfunctory act, devoid of genuine affection. His absence loomed large as he buried himself in work, leaving me to navigate the complexities of parenthood alone. When he finally did return home, his attempts at physical affection felt more like an obligation than a genuine expression of love.

The truth is, I no longer love him. His controlling nature and penchant for deceit have eroded any semblance of affection I once felt. If it weren't for our children, I would have severed ties with him long ago and embarked on a new life elsewhere—perhaps in Italy, far from the suffocating confines of our failed marriage.