The House on Sycamore Lane
The Johnson residence on Sycamore Lane appeared to be a picture of suburban perfection from the outside. The grass was mowed with military accuracy, and its white siding gleamed in the sunlight. The family was described as enjoying the American ideal by their neighbors. However, Emily Johnson was all too aware that a lovely image might conceal a terrible reality.
Emily was grinning at her neighbor Martha one warm afternoon as she stood at the front door holding the mail.
“Your garden is stunning, Emily,” Martha said. “You always keep everything so perfect.”
Emily’s smile tightened. “Thank you. Michael likes things orderly.” She tugged at the cuff of her blouse, as she always did, even in the sticky Ohio heat.
“Is Michael working late again?”
“Yes,” Emily said brightly. “Sales managers are always busy.”
To everyone, Michael Johnson was the ideal husband—handsome, charming, a volunteer at every PTA meeting. He waved to neighbors while mowing the lawn, always polite and attentive. No one noticed Emily’s long sleeves, or the way she avoided meeting anyone’s eyes for too long.
A small voice called from inside. “Mom? Can you help me with my homework?”
Emily excused herself, stepping back into the dim coolness of the house.
A Quiet Child
Sophia, her daughter of twelve, was sitting with a math book and looking at fractions. She had her father’s golden hair, a perfect academic record, and was attractive and courteous.
“My dear, what’s the matter?” Emily inquired.
Sophia gestured toward the page, but her gaze strayed to her mother’s wrist, where a sleeve had fallen up, revealing tiny stains. Emily forced a bright smile as she pulled it down.
“Ah, fractions! Let’s see.
Sophia remained silent. She had become more reserved in recent months, withdrawing to her room after school. Adolescence is normal, Emily told herself. It was too difficult to think of anything else.
When Michael’s car pulled into the driveway at six o’clock in the evening, the house shook with tension.
“I’m home!” he called.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Emily answered, straightening her apron.
Michael loosened his tie, surveying the room. “Sophia, homework finished?”
“Yes, Dad. Mom helped me.”
“Good girl,” he said, patting her head like property.
Dinner was a ritual. Michael held court, recounting his sales triumphs and upcoming promotion. Emily and Sophia listened in silence.
“How was the supermarket, Emily?” His voice sharpened.
“Just the usual.”
“Good. You’re careful. But I hear even part-time women have affairs these days.”
Sophia’s fork clattered against her plate.
“Are you alright, sweetie?” Emily asked quickly.
“Sorry,” Sophia mumbled.
After dinner, Michael watched TV while Emily washed dishes. Sophia disappeared upstairs. Later, Emily ventured, “Sophia seems a bit down lately.”
“It’s adolescence,” Michael said flatly. “Just keep an eye on her.”
Emily nodded. Michael was always “right.”
That night, when Emily peeked into Sophia’s room, her daughter asked quietly, “Mom, are you happy?”
The question hit like a slap. “Of course. Why do you ask?”
Sophia hesitated. “It’s nothing. Goodnight.”
Emily shut the door, the question echoing in her head. This family was happy. Michael was a good husband. The neighbors said so. She brushed her hair without meeting her own eyes in the mirror, then buttoned her long-sleeved pajamas. Smile. Always smile.
Rules and Receipts
Monday morning, Michael stood at the door with his suitcase, leaving for a three-day business trip.
“Emily,” he said, handing her a crisp $100 bill. “Living expenses. Keep every receipt. I’ll check.”
“Yes.” One hundred dollars for three days. Tight, as always.
“And don’t forget Sophia’s tutoring pickup. Tuesday at three. Be vigilant.” His hand clamped on her shoulder.
Sophia came downstairs, uniform neat. “I’m going, Dad.”
“Be a good girl.”
