WARNING: Angst like whoa.
It's been a while since her hair started turning gray; Henry still hasn't said a word on the matter, though she'd caught Abe glancing between the two of them more than once, probably finally beginning to grasp the weight of his father's burden.
She avoids going out in public with her family now; it's bad enough the new neighbors think her husband is some sort of sleaze that married an older woman for some grand inheritance despite their rugged conditions.
They've moved all the way across Brooklyn to avoid the questions, but there's no way to hide the fact that Dr. Morgan is married to a woman who appears well beyond him in years, that his son is now approaching his twenties while he still appears to be in the middle of his thirties.
Her face seems to gain a wrinkle every other day, and there's only a hint of gold left in her hair. Her joints ache every morning and arthritis is becoming a nuisance every now and again.
But they're making do.
They live as they always have; she still gets up every morning to cook for her husband and son, gives Henry a kiss on the lips and Abe a quick peck on the head before they both head out to work, still cleans the house until it's spotless (lately she's been hearing a lot of negative talk about housewives and how women should aspire to be more, but she is content with her lot in life; it's not like she has the energy for anything else).
But after her chores are done and her boys still aren't home, she'll sit in the parlor or the dining room, staring at her reflection in the mirror or the silverware and thinking.
She was still lovely, she supposed. Henry had made it clear early on in their relationship that he did not give a damn what she looked like, but she still bit her lip lightly, unable to keep depressing thoughts at bay.
What if he no longer felt the same way, no matter his words? What if he fell for some younger, prettier woman? She's heard of that happening more than once, and she fears it's becoming a trend nowadays, the husband leaving the old family for some younger woman.
She'll stare at her withered features, her darkening age spots and whitening hair and trembling limbs, and think to herself that she really wouldn't blame him if he did leave.
A/N: We're getting near the end, ladies and gents. I hope you enjoy angst, because that's what most of this is going to be from now on.
~Persephone