Better Dead Than Married

That night, we trailed Edmond and Philip back home. Philip barely got through the door before kicking off his shoes and collapsing on the couch.

"Ariel, I'm starving!"

He'd spent all day sucking up to Keyla, then came home barking orders.

Ariel clenched her jaw. "He treats me like a maid."

I gave her a pat. Ever since we married into the Jahns, the good stuff never made it to us. We cooked, cleaned, did laundry—and didn't even get a paycheck.

We weren't wives. We were unpaid help.

Philip yelled a few more times. When Ariel didn't jump like usual, he stomped upstairs, muttering the whole way.

"You've got such a bad attitude. I'm always apologizing to Keyla because of you. Can't you be more understanding? She's just our little sister. Why are you so jealous?"

Unreal. What kind of "little sister" shares a spoon with her brothers or curls up in their laps to game?

But Edmond and Philip kept spinning that lie—until they actually bought it.

Still grumbling, Philip swung open their bedroom door. Dark.

"Edmond, she's not here."

Annoyed, Edmond checked our room. Empty. He pulled out his phone and called me.

This time, it was my turn to ignore the call.

They both kept dialing. No answer. Philip lost it and chucked his phone across the room.

"A few comments and they're already running off? Not picking up? Fine! Let's see how long they last!"

He spat on the floor, fuming. Just like always—so quick to assume we were the problem. That we were overreacting. Again.

Edmond didn't throw his phone, but the way he stood—rigid, jaw tight—said plenty.

Before, I'd be spiraling. Wondering what I did, what set him off.

But now? There's no one left to ask.