Chapter 22 Nora
NORA
After putting on a load of washing, I yawn as I climb the stairs. Nate snores softly from the bedroom, and I creep in on my tiptoes, lifting the silky fabric of my gown over my head as I pad into the en suite bathroom.
My heavy breasts ache as I knock them with my arm. I take off my knickers as I sit on the toilet with tired legs. I wipe between my legs with a tissue.
My heart plummets to my stomach.
A pink stain, all too familiar, stares back at me from the tissue.
I wipe again. The tissue red this time.
Tears swell in my eyes. A red stain on the gusset of my knickers glares at me through my blurred vision.
My dress.
Holding back a whine, I rush into the bedroom and lift my dress from the bed, checking the back. A small patch darkens the pink fabric, and I let out a strangled sob.
The thing that made me feel good about myself is now tainted with this, like everything else in my life.
Nate stirs in the bed, and I bring the dress to my face, muffling my sniffles and pad back into the en suite, quietly searching for my sanitary products.
Holding my breath, I ease the drawer open and slip a pad from the packet as if it might scream if I’m not careful. I peel it open, the crinkle of the wrapper sounding like thunder in the silent bathroom.
Nate mumbles in his sleep.
My entire body freezes, my pulse kicking against my ribs, waiting for him to wake and save me from this nightmare.
But he doesn’t. Nothing can save me from this despair hollowing out my chest.
Nate exhales, sinking further into sleep, unaware the world has split open beneath my feet.
I press the pad into my clean underwear with trembling fingers and pull them up, swallowing around the lump in my throat.
The ache behind my eyes burns, intensifying the throb in my temple.
My reflection in the mirror blurs as I wipe the smudged mascara, faded lipstick, and messed hair despite perfecting it earlier today. I look like the aftermath of a party I didn’t even enjoy, apart from a few stolen moments with Nate and Evan between small talk, bragging rights, and camera rolls.
Another sob spills out of me as I pick up the dress that made me feel wanted.
For a few quiet moments, I wasn’t dying inside or trying to hide or not take up space.
I was just a woman in a dress, with my husband’s arm around my waist. A friend’s hands on my hips on the dance floor.
Heat in my skin that didn’t come from shame, and hope in my chest that maybe my dreams are possible.
Now I’m back here, standing in my bathroom, bleeding into fabric like my body’s reminding me exactly where I stand in the universe.
No miracle.
Not this month.
Not tonight.
My throat tightens, and I press my palm over my mouth, forcing the sob back down.
Not here. I can’t wake him.
Nate’s already hurting, and I refuse to be the reason he hurts more.
I peer down at the dress again. The stain isn’t huge, just a thumbnail really, but it might as well be a fucking billboard with the words FAILED written in red paint.
My hands clutch the fabric, and I slip out of the en suite, closing the door behind me with a soft click. I hold my breath as I grab my pyjamas and make my way downstairs.
The house is dim and quiet, the only sound the soft buzz of the fridge and the tick of the kitchen clock reminding me that the world is still moving and at thirty-eight my body is running out of time.
I step into the kitchen, flick the tap on as gently as I can, and lay the dress into the sink. Warm water runs over my fingers. I reach for the soap, the stain remover, anything that promises it can lift a mark. As if I can restore the dress, then there might be hope I can be fixed too.
My hands shake as I work the fabric under the tap, rubbing quietly, tears streaming down my face.
Then my stomach hardens, the hollowness in my chest turning to ice as I scrub harder with quiet rage, rubbing at the stain as if I can erase all the years of heartache, disappointment, waiting rooms, ovulating tests, period apps, but the stain smears instead of lifting, spreading like a cruel joke.
My breath shudders as I give up. I bow my head over the sink, my shoulders shaking as I silently weep into the cotton of my pyjamas, biting the inside of my cheek so I don’t make a sound.
A sob escapes anyway. I don’t know how many more nights I can keep pretending I’m fine. Water covers the dress, soaking the stain I can’t get rid of. This is exactly what I do.
I scrub. I fix. I smile. I clean up the mess. I try to be good. Fit in. Try to be small enough. Quiet enough. Acceptable enough. Try to be worthy of the thing I want more than anything. But no matter how hard I try, I’m faced with disappointment. Story of my life.
My sobs pick up, breaking through my chest in short bursts I can’t control.
I wipe my face with the back of my wrist, smearing tears across my skin, and examine the dress.
The beautiful dress Poppy picked. The one that made me feel sexy.
The one Evan said would be a crime not to dance in.
The way Nate looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first time in years.
And now it’s stained like everything else. Like the parts of me that used to believe things would work out if I just tried harder.
My hands go still under the running water, my chest rising and falling, my eyes burning, my whole body aching right through to my bones.
I want to go upstairs, crawl into bed and wake Nate, and let him hold me. I want him to say the words that will fix it. But he can’t. There aren’t any words. Just more waiting.
I turn off the tap, silence filling the room.
I lift the dress out of the sink and squeeze it gently, watching water swirl down into the drain as if it’s taking pieces of me with it. Then I lay it flat on the counter, grab a towel, and press it into the stained fabric.
The stain has faded, but still shows through like a reminder that I’ll never be anything more than the poor orphaned girl I’ve always been.
Maybe Nate and his family are all I deserve.
Maybe I won’t be a good mum because I’ve never had one.
Perhaps this is for the best, but why does it have to hurt so much?
I wipe my cheeks, take one last steadying breath, and pad into the living room.
I can’t climb into bed with Nate asleep, so I sink onto the sofa instead, curling my legs beneath me, wrapping my arms around a cushion at my middle like I’m holding something precious in place.
As if with a tight enough grip, I can stop everything slipping away, but no matter how tightly I hold on to it, I can’t stop the relentless tears from pouring out of me.
As the house sleeps, I break down in the darkness, my body aching, my chest hollow, and my heart whispering the same desperate prayer it always does.
Please.
Please.
Please.