Chapter 2: The Marriage Lottery

Natalie is very agreeable—the perfect wife in every man’s fantasy.

That’s what everyone tells me, anyway. To the outside world, she checks all the boxes: beautiful, polite, never one to raise her voice or make a scene. On paper, she’s the dream.

She doesn’t make a fuss, doesn’t nag, doesn’t check up on me.

There’s no trace of jealousy, no endless text messages when I’m out late. The guys can’t believe it. "She just lets you go out? Doesn’t care if you’re at the bar ‘til midnight?" I shrug and laugh it off, but sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to be missed.

Even when my buddies and I go out drinking, their wives are always calling and scolding them to come home, but my phone is always quiet.

I’d watch as Derek’s phone would blow up—his wife’s name flashing, her voice shrill through the speaker: "You better get home!" Me? Nothing but the hum of neon and the sticky ring of bottle caps on the bar. Part of me envied the chaos, the proof that someone cared where he was.

My friend Derek nudged me with his elbow, teasing:

"Ethan, do you know you’re the guy we all envy? If only we could marry a wife as gentle and understanding as Natalie, our lives would be perfect."

He grinned, half-joking, half-sincere, his hand gripping my shoulder like he was passing me a torch. The others echoed him, raising their glasses. I felt the weight of their words settle somewhere cold in my chest.

I could only smile, but the smile never reached my eyes.

I tried to match their laughter, lips curling up automatically. But there was a hollowness underneath, something that made my jaw ache. I sipped my beer to cover it up.

My friends left one after another. I slowly finished the last bottle of beer, gave myself a pep talk, and finally headed home.

The bar emptied out, chairs flipped on tables, the scent of fried food lingering in the air. I wandered out into the night, streetlights flickering overhead. My footsteps echoed on the concrete as I told myself I was lucky, tried to believe it one more time. I drove home, windows down, cool air stinging my cheeks.

The house was always dark and quiet. I could even hear Natalie’s steady breathing.

Our place sat on a quiet cul-de-sac, neighbors’ porch lights blinking out one by one. Inside, the only sound was the soft whoosh of the central air. I dropped my keys in the bowl and stood for a second, listening. Her breathing was steady, almost rhythmic, like a metronome keeping time in the silence.

My foot accidentally hit the trash can, making a loud noise. I held my breath, hoping I hadn’t woken Natalie.

The clang echoed in the kitchen, and I froze, wincing, waiting for footsteps or a scolding voice. My heart pounded in my ears.

Not long after, Natalie shuffled out of the bedroom, bleary-eyed.

She shuffled down the hallway, hair sticking up, wearing that old college T-shirt with the faded logo. She didn’t even wrinkle her nose at the beer on my breath.

"You’re back. Go to sleep. You’ve been drinking. I’ll go sleep with Lily."

She said it softly, but with a practiced detachment, like she was reciting a line she’d said a hundred times before. No judgment. Just matter-of-fact.

No complaints, no emotional reaction.

She didn’t flinch at the smell of alcohol, didn’t sigh or roll her eyes. Just picked up a blanket from the hall closet and turned away. It was almost eerie how nothing ever rattled her.

Natalie didn’t get upset like most women might if their husbands came home late and reeking of alcohol. She didn’t even say a harsh word to me.

There was no lecture, no slammed doors or sharp words. Instead, she moved with the calm precision of someone folding a sheet of paper—deliberate, controlled. It made me feel smaller than if she’d yelled.

It’s not like I haven’t dated other women before. They all had their own little quirks, but Natalie had none.

Some of my exes would’ve left angry voicemails, or locked me out for the night. Natalie just accepted everything, like it barely touched her. Sometimes I wondered if she even noticed me coming home at all.

Natalie’s calm felt less like peace and more like someone unplugged the whole house.

At times, I felt like I was living with a roommate, not a wife. She was polite to a fault, steady as a rock—but cold as one, too.

But she didn’t even say a single word of concern.

Not a "Drive safe next time," or "Let me know if you’re running late." She just went about her business, like I was the mail getting dropped on the counter.

I stood there for a long time, watching Natalie walk to our daughter’s room. The words I couldn’t bring myself to say circled my tongue several times, but finally turned into a humble plea:

"Babe, I feel a bit sick. Could you make me some coffee or something for my hangover?"

My voice cracked in the empty hallway. I heard myself, the vulnerability there, hating how desperate I sounded. I just wanted her to care—just once.

I fidgeted, rubbing my temple, glancing at her for any sign of concern. Natalie’s hand paused on the doorknob. She turned back, still gentle, but indifferent. I watched her grip tighten slightly, her face unreadable.

"Go to bed early. Once you’re asleep, you won’t feel bad."

Her eyes were soft, but her tone was final. She turned away, the door clicking quietly behind her. I stared after her, feeling a gulf open up between us, wider than ever.

The door closed, cutting off what I wanted to say next. The distance between us was more than just a door.

The silence was heavy, pressing down on me. I stood in the hallway, alone with the hum of the fridge and the ache in my chest, wishing things could be different.