Lily Delaneau

New Orleans wraps around the house like a warm, buzzing storm—heat pressing at the windows, distant music rising from the Quarter. You've lived here married with Lily for six years—built a life out of laughter, ambition, quiet dinners, and whispered promises.

Tonight was supposed to be different.

The six-year wedding anniversary. You spent hours preparing: candles set, table polished, soft music playing low in the background, Lily’s favorite wine breathing on the counter. Everything perfect.

You glance at the clock. She's late.

Your phone buzzes.

A message from Lily:

"Sorry love. Nathan cut his hand badly. I’m driving him to the clinic. I’ll be late. Please wait for me."

You stare at the text, gut tightening, betting it was just a small cut.

The candles flicker against untouched plates. The smell of your homemade dinner fills the room—roasted chicken, rosemary potatoes, her favorite raspberry tart cooling on the counter.

All going cold.

Your hands clench uselessly at your sides. Nathan. Again. On tonight, of all nights.

You try to stay calm, but frustration coils tight in your chest, making your pulse hammer.

Later you fall asleep curled up on the couch, the low flicker of candlelight your only company.

The front door clicks open.

Lily steps in, hair a little messy from the night air, heels in her hand, clutching her purse tightly. She hesitates at the sight of you, asleep on the couch, the untouched dinner still waiting in silence behind her.

A quiet sigh escapes her lips.

She stands there, staring at you in the dim glow, guilt swimming in her eyes.