The Perfect Picture-Frame
Layla's Point of View
Happiness, I thought, was what stayed when the noise left. Not fireworks, but settling. Not applause, but the hum that follows when the dishes are done. The kind of quiet that keeps a house stitched together.
I used to think happiness was quiet.
Not the loud, champagne-popping kind that filled engagement parties or milestone anniversaries, but the still sort, the hum of the dishwasher after dinner, the soft weight of my husband's arm draped over me in sleep, the rhythm of two people who had built a life together brick by brick.
That morning was one of those quiet ones. The sun had barely crept over the treeline when I stepped barefoot into the kitchen, the cool tile biting gently at my soles. My phone rested on the counter, charging overnight, where I'd left it the night before. It was a reminder to order groceries, to call Evelyn back, and to...
A buzz broke the silence. I blinked down at the screen. It wasn't my phone. The name flashed across Dan's phone, which was plugged in next to mine.
Lillie.
The name sliced through the morning like a paper cut, small, almost nothing, and somehow stinging everywhere at once. My mouth said, 'work thing', while my wrists went cold.
The same name flashed across the screen again.
I froze, breath caught in my throat.
It was probably work. It had to be. Dan was in the shower, steam curling out of the slightly open bathroom door and carrying the scent of cedar and citrus into the hallway. This was his new cologne, the one I hadn't picked.
I swallowed, locked my eyes on the kettle as I poured water, and I gave the nothing a leash and told it to heel.
Because that was us. Safe. Steady. Together for five years, and married for three. He had been my first everything: first kiss, and first love.
A small part of my heart wondered if he would be my first heartbreak. I didn't know why this thought occurred to me, but something felt off. Something had changed.
The sound of the shower stopped, followed by the scrape of the glass door and his deep, familiar hum as he towelled off. By the time he padded down the hall, dressed in one of his newer, tailored shirts, charcoal grey, with sleeves rolled to his elbows, I had two mugs ready on the counter.
"Morning," he said, flashing the smile that still tugged at the edges of my chest.
"Morning," I echoed, sliding his coffee across the counter like always. He liked it black. Always had.
He sipped, leaning a hip against the island. "Big day. Staff meeting at noon, then I'll probably have to stay late to balance numbers before the end of the quarter."
I nodded, tracing a finger along the rim of my cup. Recently, there have been many big days. Late nights, too. "Don't forget we've got dinner at Evelyn's on Friday night. She'll kill me if you bail."
His smile didn't falter, but something in his eyes flickered. "Wouldn't dream of it."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that everything was the same, that the man standing in my kitchen with that easy confidence was still the boy who once carved our initials into the oak tree behind this very house.
The letters are still there, weathered to silver lines in the bark... D + L in a crooked heart. Sometimes I press my thumb to the old groove and feel the ridges like Braille, as if the tree could read our promises back to me.
But the shirts were new. So was the cologne. And the phone, buzzing silently between us, screen now dark.
After he left, the house settled into its usual hush, sunlight stretching across polished hardwood and over the photos lining the hallway. There we were in every frame: beach trips, ski holidays, silly selfies in the backyard. Five years of laughter and quiet moments, frozen forever.
I noticed what I hadn't before: in the newer frames, Dan stands a half-step away, shoulders angled not quite toward me but toward the lens, as if practising for an exit. It's a trick of light, I told myself. Photographs lie all the time.
I lingered in front of the largest photo, taken on our wedding day. My veil had lifted on a wind I took for a blessing, and my hair lit like a promise we believed would never dim. Dan's arms wrapped tight around me, and his smile was brighter than the sun.
Back then, I believed forever was simple: If you loved someone enough, it would be enough.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of errands and routine. I went to work, stopping by the farmer's market on my way home. I spent the entire day answering grant reports and filling out volunteer rosters for the literacy foundation I have managed since my parents passed.
EverVale was one of the oldest privately held philanthropic foundations in the country. My wealthy grandparents founded the company and passed it on to my father. My parents had taken the company on a journey that would make it one of the most successful companies in the country.
The company had been built on quiet wealth, sustainable change, and deliberate anonymity. It funded education, literacy, and community development initiatives globally, using private investments in publishing, renewable energy, and technology to sustain its projects.
From the outside, EverVale appeared modestly successful, a reputable but understated foundation known for consistent results rather than publicity. Behind the scenes, it was a financial and humanitarian powerhouse, entirely owned and controlled by my parents, and now, me.
I liked to keep busy. Busy is a word that closes doors quietly. It stops the intrusive thoughts and questions from settling too long in my chest.
I was a month off eighteen when the phones stopped ringing and the casseroles started arriving. Just old enough that I didn't need a foster home. They wanted to send me to one, but realised that the paperwork for less than a month wasn't worth it.
So I stayed in the house, which eventually became mine, on paper, with stamps and signatures. Still, it never stopped feeling like I was only borrowing it from my parents' last good day.
By evening, I'd set the table for two, candles unlit. Dinner stayed warm in the oven as minutes turned into hours. By the time I heard the familiar crunch of tyres on gravel, the clock on the stove glowed past nine.
Dan walked in looking polished but tired, tie loosened, phone in hand. "Sorry, babe," he said, brushing a kiss against my temple as he passed. "Lost track of time. You didn't have to wait."
"I wanted to," I said, because I always did.
I plated the roast while he checked his phone. He laughed at a story I didn't hear, nodded at a calendar I couldn't see.
"You're somewhere else," I almost said, but the word busy has such smooth edges; it slides between people without cutting anyone open.
Later, after dishes and half-watched television, I curled into my side of the bed and stared at the ceiling. He was already asleep, steady breaths rising and falling beside me. His phone sat on the nightstand, face down, a faint glow leaking from the edges as it lit up again.
Another message.
From Lillie.
The screen went dark. A minute later, it brightened again, before silence, then the faintest tremor against the wood. I counted my breaths and made it to eight before the third buzz came, small as a mosquito and impossible to ignore.
I turned away, closed my eyes, and told myself I was imagining things.
The next morning, I woke early. The air was heavy, and a storm threatened in the distance, though the sky was still streaked with pink and gold. Dan was gone. His car was missing from the driveway, and the faint scent of his cologne lingered like a ghost in the kitchen.
Houses hold their breath. Mine has learned to do it well. The fridge motor purred; a floorboard clicked in the hallway like an old joint. Even the kettle seemed to wait for permission to boil.
I sat with my coffee and stared out the window at the hydrangeas I'd planted last spring, now blooming in shades of soft blue. I'd always loved this house. The wraparound porch, the sprawling backyard, and the sense of history in every creak of the floorboards. It had been my parents' dream home before the accident, and keeping it had been my way of holding onto them.
Somewhere deep down, a quiet voice whispered that maybe I was holding onto more than just the house.
By the time Evelyn called, midmorning, I had forced myself into a smile. "Hey," I said, too brightly.
"Don't you 'hey' me," she said, her tone sharp enough to slice through my facade. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," I lied, tracing the edge of my coffee cup. "Dan's just… busy."
There was silence on the other end, the kind that only comes from someone who has known you long enough to read the truth between the words. "Busy doesn't mean absent, Lay."
"I know."
"Then say worried," she said gently.
"I'm fine," I lied again, because there's a difference between being fine and being quiet. I have always been excellent at the second.
But knowing didn't stop the ache from settling low in my chest.
That evening, as I folded laundry in the living room, Dan came home earlier than usual. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his hair slightly mussed, and when he smiled at me, it almost felt like it had before.
Almost.
We ate together, shared quiet conversation, and when he reached across the table to squeeze my hand, I told myself to stop overthinking. To stop imagining cracks in the picture we'd built.
After dinner, I stepped onto the porch. The swing creaked the way it always had. The same slow lullaby that used to rock us through July heat and thunder. I set it moving with my heel and listened to the night gather itself around the hydrangeas.
Because this was what we had. A life, a marriage, a love that had lasted half a decade. Surely that had to mean something.
Hours later, lying in bed, I rolled toward him and whispered into the dark, "I love you."
His reply came delayed, soft. "Love you too, Lay."
But when I opened my eyes, his were still closed, his breathing steady but not quite asleep.
And on the nightstand, his phone buzzed again.
I turned my face to the wall and practised stillness. The phone pulsed once more, a heartbeat that didn't belong to us.
Happiness, I'd believed, was quiet. I just hadn't considered how loud betrayal could be without making a sound.