Heard Through the Walls

The alarm pierced through my dreams at 5:30 AM, just like every other morning for the past eight years. I rolled over, my hand instinctively reaching for Derek's side of the bed, but found only cool sheets and the faint indent where his body had been.

He must have left early again for another investor meeting.

I padded downstairs in my silk robe, the marble floors cold against my bare feet. The kitchen gleamed under the pendant lights—all stainless steel and white quartz, featured in last month's Architectural Digest spread about "Silicon Valley Power Couples." I'd smiled for those photos, Derek's arm around my waist, both kids perfectly positioned between us like we were selling the American dream itself.

The lunch prep ritual began: organic turkey and avocado for Emma, gluten-free PB&J for Jake because he'd decided last week that regular bread was "gross." I sliced the crusts off with surgical precision, arranged everything in their monogrammed lunch boxes, and added handwritten notes on recycled paper. "Have an amazing day, sweetheart! Love, Mom."

By 7:15, both kids were buckled into the back of my Range Rover, backpacks loaded with homework I'd helped complete and permission slips I'd already signed. Emma chattered about her upcoming science fair project while Jake practiced his violin scales under his breath, both of them blissfully unaware that Mommy had once had her own dreams beyond driving them to Montessori school.

"Mrs. Peterson!" Jake's teacher, Ms. Rodriguez, waved as I walked him to his classroom. "Don't forget about the PTA meeting this afternoon. We're discussing the new playground equipment funding."

I smiled and nodded, already mentally rearranging my schedule. SoulCycle at 11, grocery shopping for tonight's dinner, then the meeting. Derek had texted that morning—another late night, something about due diligence calls with investors in Singapore. I'd learned not to ask too many questions about his work. The tech world moved fast, and my MBA from ten years ago felt ancient now.

The PTA meeting dragged on for two hours. Heated debates about organic versus conventional mulch for the playground. I found myself zoning out, thinking about the marketing campaigns I used to run, the thrill of closing deals and seeing my strategies come to life. Now my biggest decision was whether to serve salmon or chicken for dinner.

"Nora?" Janet Morrison, the PTA president, was staring at me expectantly. "What do you think about the fundraiser theme?"

"Oh, um—" I scrambled to catch up. "Whatever the committee decides is fine with me."

Janet's smile was tight. "Well, since you're volunteering to chair the decorations committee, I'll put you down for that."

I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it. What else was I going to do with my time?

After picking up the kids and getting them settled with homework and snacks, I finally had a moment to breathe. The house felt too quiet, too perfect. Every throw pillow in its place, every surface gleaming. I walked through our living room, past the family