The Hidden Cracks of a Perfect Union

It was only a few spellings that were corrected
Here is the original writing

The late afternoon sun poured abudantly through the curtans of our living room, casting golden patterens across the tiles. I could hear the faint murmur of voices from were I sat in my room, doing nothing in particular. My mother and my aunt were chatting in the sitting room, their voices rising and falling like the sea waves. My aunt’s laughter—soft, melodic, and familiar—pulled me into memories of her dazzling wedding years ago.

It had been a one-of-a-kind event of the decde. My mother had spoken about it for weeks afterward, marveling at the elegance, the weath, and the undeniable chemistry between my aunt and her new husband. He was a wealthy buisnessman, charming and polished, with a smile that seemed to set him apart from everyone else. My aunt, in her elaborately ornamented and flashy white gown, had seemed like a queen. Together, they looked like they had steped out of a fairy tale. Everyone agreed they were a match made in heaven.

But that was years ago.

The voices in the living room brought me back to the present. My aunt was here for a visit, her first in months. I hadn’t seen her yet since I was in my room, but her laughter was pure and joyful, as though things were exactly as they should be.

“Ah, this meat pie is devine,” I heard her say, her voice bright and familiar.

“Only the best for you,” my mother replied. She had baked some meat pie the previous day. I imagined her smiling and as generous as ever, as she always did when hosting family.

Time passed, and their conversation turned softer, more intamate. I couldn’t make out the words anymore, but there was a heavyness in the air, an odd shift from their earlier cheer. My curiousty grew, but I stayed put, hesitant to interupt.

Eventually, I emerged from my room, the lingering aroma of my mother’s meat pie drawing me to the parlor. My aunt was sitting on the couch, her face turned slightly away. She wore a simple Ankara dress, the vibrant patterns a stark contrast to the dullness in her eyes. My mother was beside her, holding her hand.

I hesitated at the door. My aunt’s voice was trembling now, and tears rolled silently down her cheeks. My mother squeezed her hand, whispering something I couldn’t catch.

Before I could take another step, my aunt stood abruptly, wiping her tears and forcing a smile. “I should get going,” she said, her voice cracking ever so slightly.

“Let me walk you out,” my mother offered.

“No need,” my aunt said, her tone firmer now. “Thank you, though. I’ll call you later.” She gave my mother a quick hug and left, her departure swift and almost hurried.

I stood there, rooted to the spot, confused and unsetlled.

“What was that about?” I asked as soon as the parlor door clicked shut.

My mother sighed, her shoulders drooping as she sank into the couch. For a moment, she said nothing, just staring at the last two pieces of meat pie on the serving tray in front of her. Then she looked at me, her eyes heavy with a sadness that matched my aunt’s.

“Her marriage,” she said quietly, “isn’t what it seems.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?” I sat down, anxious and currious to know what she meant. Everyone always says she’s so lucky, that they’re perfect together.

“What people see is far different from the reality,” my mother said, her voice tinged with a bitterness I rarely heard from her. “Her husband—he’s... not faithful. He cheats on her, constantly. She’s known for a while, but she doesn’t know what to do. She feels trapped, ashamed.”

I stared at her, the weight of her words sinking in slowly. My mind flashed back to the wedding, to the endless compliments and toasts about their love, their partnership. How could something so seemingly perfect have such deep cracks beneath the surface?

“But she always looks so happy,” I said, still clinging to the image I’d grown up with.

My mother gave me a small, sad smile. “That’s what she wants everyone to think. Sometimes, we hide our pain because we don’t want to be judged, or pitied. Especially in her case—people expect so much from her. She doesn’t want to admit that the life everyone envied isn’t what it’s supposed to be.”

I sat down beside her, the realization hitting me hard. My aunt, the woman everyone admired for her grace and charm, was quietly battling a pain I couldn’t have imagined. The phrase “a match made in heaven” felt almost cruel now, a mocking reminder of a dream that had turned sour.

“Can’t she leave him?” I asked hesitantly.

“It’s not that simple,” my mother said. “There’s the stigma, the fear of starting over, the years she’s already invested. And deep down, I think she still hopes he’ll change.”

We sat in silence for a while, the golden patterns on the floor fading as the sun slowly lowered in the sky. My mother reached out and placed a hand on mine, her touch warm and reasurring.

“Life isn’t always what it seems,” she said softly. “Even the most beautiful things can have shadows. But what matters is how we face them.”

That evening, I couldn’t stop thinking about my aunt. She was strong, stronger than I’d ever realized, carrying a burden she hadn’t asked for. The match made in heaven had turned out to be far from perfect, but she faced it with a quiet resiliance that deserved more admiration than any lavish wedding ever could.