Thirty Years a Housewife, Never Once a Bride

After the meal, the table was left in chaos.

Giggling as if nothing were amiss, Brittany urged Bryce and their son out the door. Neither man spared the dirty dishes a glance before leaving.

Only Tiffany was left in the apartment. She remained seated, unmoving, for a long time.

She had been in a car accident that morning. Then she’d rushed around all afternoon. Now, the ache finally caught up with her, blood seeping through the bandage on her arm again.

Gritting her teeth, she disinfected the wound again and changed the gauze. Her eyes then lifted to the photo hanging at the head of the bed—the only “wedding photo” she and Bryce had.

Back then, they were too poor for a real photoshoot. They’d taken a quick picture outside the marriage registry office instead—awkward, poorly lit, yet still hung there after thirty years.

She studied the young woman in the frame. Then, reflected faintly in the glass, she saw herself now.

The contrast made her chest tighten.

Thirty years of endless housework had worn her down. The bright, graceful girl she once was had long since disappeared, replaced by someone time had visibly carved its marks into.

She was still standing there in her sadness when the sound of the door unlocking broke the silence.

She drew in a slow breath and stepped out of the bedroom—only to see the three back already. The same three who had left together, full of anticipation, for a foot massage.

“Damn it!” her son complained loudly. “That spa was actually closed?! We went all that way for nothing!”

Bryce’s attention was already on Brittany. He crouched down in front of her and carefully helped her out of her high heels.

When he saw the raw, reddened skin on her heels, his expression softened with obvious concern.

“They’re rubbed so bad… Just looking at them hurts my heart,” he said. “Brittany, try not to wear high heels so often, alright?”

Brittany turned her head away, clearly unconvinced.

“No way! I like wearing heels. High heels make me feel gorgeous!”

Bryce chuckled helplessly.

“Alright, alright. You deserve to be gorgeous your whole life.”

Standing at the bedroom doorway, Tiffany felt something in her chest go numb.

Once, long ago, she loved wearing dresses and high heels, too. But back then, his words had been very different.

“You’re married now. For fuck’s sake, stop dressing up in high heels, acting like you’re single. Who are you trying to impress, huh? Listen, just stay home and do your job like a proper housewife. Don’t you waste time thinking nonsense!”

“You wanna be pretty? Can being pretty put food on the table? Tiffany, a woman only needs to be obedient!”

She’d lowered her head and didn’t protest as he scolded her. Like a “proper wife,” she put every dress away from the wardrobe. All her favorite heels had gone straight into the trash.

That decision had lasted thirty years.

“My feet really hurt…” Brittany groaned suddenly, pouting.

Bryce stiffened at once.

Beside him, Flynn snapped his fingers, as if struck by an idea.

“Oh, right! Dad, isn’t Mom actually good at massage? Why not have her help Auntie?”

Bryce lifted his gaze and looked at the doorway. His eyes met Tiffany’s.

Her heart suddenly sank.

Sure, she was good at massage. But surely, they wouldn’t make her massage Brittany’s feet, right?

“Why are you still standing there like an idiot?” Bryce blurted out impatiently. “Didn’t you hear your sister say she’s in pain? Why don’t you hurry up and get water ready?”

Tiffany’s body shook at that.

Unfortunately, what she feared was indeed what he was thinking.

But she’d just been in a car accident. The doctor had warned her not to strain her hands for several days.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “My hand isn’t in great shape right now. I can’t really use much strength.”

Bryce let out a short, mocking laugh.

“Bullshit, Tiffany. If you don’t want to do it, just say so. Don’t make stupid excuses. Back then, just to get me to notice you, you stayed up late learning massage. Now, Brittany only needs a small favor, and suddenly, you can’t do it?”

His words were like a rusty knife cutting open Tiffany’s heart, hurting it until it went numb.

All those nights hunched over books, memorizing pressure points, practicing until her fingers went stiff? It now felt absurd.

Flynn chimed in, clearly unhappy.

“Mom, Aunt Brittany’s not some outsider. Can’t you be a little considerate? It’s just a massage. How hard could it be? The way you refuse to help her… You’re acting way too heartless.”

Brittany leaned back on the couch, resting her slim ankle on a cushion. She hissed softly, as if in pain.

Bryce rushed over at once, full of concern.

“What is it? Does it hurt a lot?” Then he turned sharply toward Tiffany, urging her. “Hurry up! Do you really need me to say it again?”

Tiffany felt numb as she looked at her husband… then at her son. In Flynn’s gaze was clear protectiveness toward his aunt and a faint but unmistakable reproach toward his own mom.

Without another word, Tiffany walked over.

As soon as she began massaging Brittany’s feet, a sharp pain shot through her wrist. Her vision dimmed, and cold sweat broke out along her hairline. But she bit down hard on her lip, enduring her pain.

“Mm… The pressure’s okay. You’re just a bit rusty,” Brittany commented, half-closing her eyes.

Then she added lightly, “Hey, you used to be much more attentive when you massaged my brother-in-law.”

Bryce let out a snort, his eyes settling back on her as he said indulgently, “You’re just being fussy.”

Tiffany said nothing. She lowered her head and kept going.

Suddenly…

“Ouch!”

Brittany screamed. Her face went pale as she clutched her ankle.

“My foot! My ankle! It hurts so much! It feels like it snapped!”

She sucked in a sharp breath, her voice shaking as she accused Tiffany.

“Hey! Why did you use so much force? I felt a crack! You did that on purpose, didn’t you?!”