Twenty three years of dismissive looks, careless insults, and that persistent feeling that she herself had become an inconvenient mistake that nobody had the courage to throw away. Once she had believed Scott was brilliant and ambitious, a man who spoke confidently about the future and promised that together they would build something exciting.
“I can cook something different tomorrow,” Megan said quietly while sliding the plate toward him on the kitchen table.
“Tomorrow, tomorrow,” Scott answered with annoyance as he pulled apart one meatball and pushed the potatoes aside with his fork. “You always promise tomorrow, just like a chicken that clucks all day and never lays anything useful.”
The word hung in the air with cruel familiarity.
Chicken.
It had become his favorite nickname for her during the last few years, a label he repeated casually as if it were a harmless joke instead of a small daily humiliation. Sometimes he even said it in front of their friends while laughing.
“My little chicken running around the house collecting crumbs,” he would say while everyone chuckled politely.