The Wife

It was 1987 in a quiet town on the outskirts of Hamburg. The cobbled streets, lined with half-timbered houses, reflected the orange glow of the evening sun. Inside a modest flat on the second floor of an aging brick building, Synnia sat by the window, her fingers tracing the condensation on the glass. The autumn air outside was crisp, but the cold she felt came from something more profound.

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She had always dreamed of a cabin nestled in the woods, a place where civilization met the wild in perfect harmony. A sprawling old barn, chickens scratching in the yard, goats grazing nearby, and lush gardens thriving under her care, everything a self-sufficient, off-grid woman of nature could wish for. But love had steered her elsewhere. She chose a suburban life that pleased her husband, not because she lacked dreams, but because she longed for belonging even more than she longed for the life she once envisioned.

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A middle-aged lady she was, married for five years to a man twenty years her senior. Dietrich had been her anchor, a protector, the man who had promised to be her partner in every way. In the beginning, he was everything she had hoped for. He said the right words and did the right things. Conversation flowed effortlessly, intimacy was abundant, and romance felt alive. She hadn’t rushed into marriage; she had chosen it carefully, believing in the perfection she had seen. And yet, as she sat in the dimly lit living room, watching shadows stretch across the wooden floor, a quiet loneliness settled over her.

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Dietrich was a man of routine, shaped by decades of habits that no longer had space for change. Daily, he rose before the sun, showered, dressed in his crisp brown wool trousers and navy sweater, and left for work at his mechanic shop. By evening, he returned, ate his dinner silently, and settled onto the sofa with a beer in one hand, his eyes glued to the flickering television screen; news, sports, politics, everything except her.

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Synnia had loved him deeply when they met. She still did. There was something about his quiet strength, his old-world charm, the way he had looked at her in the early days of their marriage with admiration. But admiration wasn’t enough. Love wasn’t enough. She needed more.

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She had never been married, so with no preconceived knowledge, perhaps she had expected too much. She had imagined late-night talks, fingers intertwined, bodies warm beneath the blankets. She had dreamed of stolen glances across the dinner table, going out on dates, flowers, road trips, and feeling cherished and seen. But Dietrich was a man who spoke with his hands, with his actions, not with words, not with affection. And over time, Synnia had become invisible.

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Tonight, like every other night, Dietrich came home, placed his keys on the table, and greeted her with a brief kiss on her forehead before heading to the kitchen. The smell of boiled potatoes and bratwurst lingered in the air. She had cooked his favorite meal, hoping perhaps foolishly, that tonight would be different.

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They ate while he glanced at today’s headlines on the television, the clinking of cutlery against porcelain the only sound between them. She wanted to speak, to tell him how lonely she was, but the words sat heavy in her throat like stones. She knew how it would go. Every attempt at honesty, no matter how calmly or maturely she framed it, would be taken as an attack. He never internalized anything but fixated on the last sentence, twisting it into something to mock, dismiss, or turn against her. Teasing, belittling, anger, she had seen it all. So she hesitated, calculating every possible phrasing, but none seemed safe. Nothing made sense.

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After dinner, he sank into the old sofa, a retreat that had cradled him for years, molded to the shape of his body like a trusted companion. It knew his every slouch, every sigh of exhaustion, every late-night surrender to sleep while the television flickered in the dim room. Synnia stood in the doorway, watching him. He looked content, a faint smile resting on his kind face, untouched by the silence looming between them. Lying there, eyes fixed on the screen, he seemed whole, as if nothing were missing. In that moment, she felt like the problem, the one flaw in an otherwise perfect picture. A problem that didn’t exist. But she felt an emptiness growing between them like an unseen chasm. He was unaware, lost in the comfort of routine, while she stood frozen on the edges of their life together, feeling more like a guest in her marriage.

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“Dietrich,” she finally said, stepping forward. “Can we talk?”

He glanced at her, as if reluctant to pull himself away from the comfort of his distant thoughts to face reality. Then, just as quickly, his eyes returned to the screen.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, his voice trying to be kind and loving.

Everything is wrong, she wanted to say.

She sat on the edge of his ‘throne’, folding her hands in her lap. “I miss you.”

His brow furrowed like he didn't understand. “But I’m here.”

“No,” she shook her head. “I mean… I miss us. I miss feeling like your wife.”

Dietrich sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Synnia, I work hard. I come home, I eat, I sleep. What else do you need?”

She bit her lip, fighting the frustration rising in her chest. “I need you. I need conversation. I need touch. I need to feel like I matter to you outside of just being in this place.”

He shifted uncomfortably, reaching for his beer. “It's always something with you. Can't you just be happy? I’m not a talker. You know that.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she swallowed them back. By now, she should have learned that tears only unsettled him, emotions seemed to drain him, as if they weighed on him in a way he couldn’t bear.

“I know that,” she said, her voice trembling despite herself. “But can’t you try? Can’t you see that I’m here, waiting for you, needing you?”

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He looked at her then, really looked at her. There was something in his eyes, regret? Confusion? Ignorance? Innocence? But the moment passed, and he turned away. “Maybe you need to find something to do, out of the millions of opportunities out there. Get out there, get to know people, and be progressive. I’m too old for all that, Synnia. It’s just how I am.”

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Silence fell between them. Many times his words seemed like a ramble of passing thoughts. She often did not understand the context and meaning. She wanted to shake him, to make him aware that love wasn’t just about existing in the same space. It was about reaching out, about making the other feel wanted.

But Dietrich didn’t see. He didn’t understand. And that, more than anything, broke her heart.

She rose from the sofa, her hands trembling. “I love you, Dietrich.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. She walked to his bedroom and shut the door behind her, leaning against it, her breath unsteady.

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She wouldn’t leave him. That wasn’t an option. It was her first vow, it wasn't in her to think of another one, and she would stand by it. But as she lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, she wondered if this was what a union was meant to be, a quiet, aching loneliness masked by duty and routine.

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Perhaps in his younger days, Dietrich had been a different man. Perhaps, once upon a time, he had been a man who had loved fully, freely, and openly, but this got destroyed by unfortunate experiences he had to go through. Now, he was a man who had lost his way in the comfort of familiarity. And Synnia was left to navigate the empty spaces between them, alone.

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Days passed, each blending into the next. Synnia found herself drifting through the house, tidying a space that would become unkempt sooner. She watched the window as the leaves outside turned from green to yellow. The season was changing. She wished she could say the same about her story.

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One evening, she decided to break the routine. She put on the dress her husband once told her was his favorite, a deep burgundy number with lace along the sleeves. She fixed her hair, put on lipstick, and lit candles around the dining table. The radio played softly, an old German love song filling the space. Tonight, she would remind him of who they were before routine took hold.

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When Dietrich arrived home, he paused at the doorway, sniffing the air. “What’s this?”

“A dinner,” she said with a smile. “Just the two of us.”

He hesitated, glancing at the sofa, and when he saw the anticipation in her eyes he hugged her, kissed her forehead, sighed, then walked toward the table.

They ate in silence at first, but then Synnia took his hand in hers. “Do you remember our wedding night?” she asked.

Dietrich blinked then gave that warm smile. “Of course.”

She smiled softly. “You held my hand the whole time. Even when you fell asleep.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “I was afraid you’d disappear.”

She squeezed his hand. “I’m still here.”

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For the first time in months, maybe years, Dietrich looked at her, really looked at her. His gaze was soft, and kind, carrying no malice, only quiet oblivion. He wasn’t cruel, not intentionally. He would never hurt her on purpose. But he still didn’t understand and see the depth of what she longed for.

“I know I’m not the best husband,” he said, his voice low, tinged with something she couldn’t quite place, uncertainty, shame, maybe both. His eyes held no malice, only a quiet, helpless sort of kindness. “But I’m going to try to be better because you deserve better.”

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The words settled between them, fragile yet heavy, like a promise not yet formed. She wanted to believe him, to reach out and hold onto those words like a lifeline. But he didn’t move closer, didn’t take her hand, not even ask what she needed. Instead, he sat there, waiting, for what, she wasn’t sure.

A flicker of something stirred in her chest, so faint she almost didn’t recognize it. Hope. Not the kind that washed away years of loneliness, nor one that could heal all the quiet wounds between them. But it was something. A whisper in the dark. A thread to cling to. And for now, it would have to be enough.

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