On any given morning, the sun would peek through the gauzy curtains of the Hartley residence, casting a warm glow on the polished surfaces and the gleaming floors that Evelyn so diligently maintained. With a feather duster in hand, she twirled through the rooms, each flick of her wrist banishing the dust motes that dared to settle on her domain. Her movements were graceful, almost balletic as if she were the star of a performance where the audience consisted solely of furniture and framed photographs.

After the indoor spectacle, Evelyn would step into the garden, her sanctuary of solitude. Here, amidst the roses and hydrangeas, she found a semblance of peace. Her hands, clad in floral gloves, worked the soil and tended to the plants with a care that she could not afford to give herself. The neighbors often remarked on the beauty of her garden, not realizing that each bloom was a silent scream for help, a plea for something more than the life she was rooted in.

The dishes were next—a mountain of porcelain and silver that Evelyn conquered with the precision of a general. The soapy water swirled in the sink, a whirlpool of mundane thoughts and daydreams of escape. She washed and scrubbed, each plate a blank canvas on which she imagined a different life, a life where her smile was genuine and her laughter was not a rehearsed melody.

A shower followed—the one half-hour of the day that belonged to Evelyn and Evelyn alone. The water cascaded over her, washing away the facade, if only for a moment. She emerged not refreshed, but resigned, toweling off the droplets that clung to her like the expectations of a society that viewed her as nothing more than a dutiful wife.

And then, it was time to prepare dinner. A meal that should be shared in warmth and love, yet in the Hartley household, it was but another act in the charade. Evelyn knew that the dinner could wait, for it would be hours before Mr. Hartley returned home. Hours in which she could ponder the ticking of the clock, each second a reminder of the life she was bound to—a life that was as perfect as a picture, yet as hollow as the echo of her own footsteps in the empty hall.

As Mrs. Hartley sat on the sofa, the flickering lights of the television casting shadows across the room, she couldn't help but wonder what excuse Charles would have this evening. Her gaze drifted to the clock, its hands pointing to 6:41—the time he invariably arrived home. It was as predictable as the plot of the soap operas she watched with feigned interest, each episode a mirror to her own scripted life.

As if on cue, the familiar slam of a car door punctuated the quiet of the Hartley residence. Evelyn rose, smoothing the fabric of her housedress with a practiced hand. Her smile was painstakingly crafted, a mask of welcome so brittle it threatened to shatter with the slightest touch. She positioned herself by the front door, the portrait of a wife eagerly awaiting her husband's return.

The door opened, and in walked Charles Hartley, his presence as cold as the gust of wind that followed him inside. "Hi, honey, how was work?" Evelyn ventured, her voice a tentative melody in the chilling silence.

Charles grunted, a noncommittal sound that carried the weight of his indifference. "Fine," he muttered, his eyes scanning the room, never quite landing on her. "I made your favorite," she added quickly, hoping to elicit a warmer response.

"Thank you," he said, the words devoid of gratitude. "I have work to do." With that, he made his way to the dining room, where the aroma of dinner filled the air—a scent that no longer meant comfort but rather a reminder of their hollow routine.

With mechanical precision, Charles piled his plate with food and retreated to his office, the sanctuary of his solitude. Evelyn was left alone at the dining table, her company the silent echoes of a marriage devoid of connection. She ate in solitude, her thoughts a cacophony of unspoken words and stifled dreams.

As the silence of her meal grew too oppressive, Evelyn decided to seek out her husband. She found Charles in his office, buried under a mountain of work, oblivious to her arrival. "I thought we could spend some time together," she said, her voice tinged with hope.

Charles' reaction was swift and sharp. His chair clattered against the floor as he turned to face her. "Can't you see I'm busy?" he snapped, his irritation palpable. Evelyn's heart sank, but she mustered a soft rebuke. "Is it so wrong to want to see my husband?"

But Charles was beyond reach, his anger boiling over. With a swift motion, he swept his arm across the desk, sending papers flying like fallen leaves in a storm."I don't have time for your romantic notions," Charles retorted, his voice laced with exasperation. "The mountain of work I have is overwhelming, and it demands all my focus."

Evelyn stepped back, the debris of his temper and their life falling around her. She retreated, leaving Charles to the fortress of his solitude. In the quiet of their home, she mourned the dream of a life once vibrant with love and laughter, now as remote and cold as the stars that twinkled with indifference outside her window.

After the quiet ritual of cleaning up from her solitary dinner, Evelyn found herself enveloped by the silence of the house—a silence that seemed to press against her with the weight of unspoken words. She moved through the rooms with a ghostly grace, putting away the leftovers, washing the dishes, and wiping down the counters, her actions as rhythmic and automatic as the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall.

With a sigh that seemed to draw the quiet around her like a shawl, Evelyn retreated to the bathroom. There, she exchanged the day's attire for her nightwear, a soft fabric that whispered against her skin, offering little comfort for the solitude that had become her constant companion.

In the bedroom, Charles was already a world away, lost in the depths of sleep. He lay there, a picture of serenity that stood in stark contrast to the turmoil that churned within Evelyn. She slipped into bed beside him, the coolness of the sheets a reminder of the growing distance between them. In the darkness, she lay awake, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, where shadows played out scenes of a life that seemed to drift further away with each passing day.

Eventually, sleep came, carrying Evelyn into its embrace and into the realm of dreams. She found herself standing at the edge of a serene lake, the water's surface smooth as glass, reflecting the night sky above. The stars twinkled, each one a distant beacon, their light traveling across the vastness of space to reach her.

The dream was vivid, the air filled with the scent of the water and the soft rustle of leaves in the gentle night breeze. Evelyn stepped forward, her feet touching the cool water, sending ripples across the lake's surface. The sensation was not one of cold but of connection, as if the lake itself was alive, a silent witness to her innermost thoughts and feelings.

As she waded deeper, the water rose, lapping at her ankles, her knees, her waist. It was a gradual immersion, a slow descent into a world where the boundaries between reality and imagination blurred. The lake held her, supported her, its depths a mystery that beckoned her to explore further.

When morning came, and Evelyn awoke, the memory of the dream lingered like the afterglow of sunset. She lay there, the first light of dawn casting a soft glow in the room, and wondered what secrets the lake held, what truths it might reveal in the nights to come. The dream was a journey, a beginning, and Evelyn knew that there was more to be discovered in the quiet depths of her slumbering mind.

Evelyn stirred from her bed, the remnants of her dream still clinging to the edges of her consciousness. Charles' side was empty, the sheets cool to the touch, and the distant sound of the shower running told her he was already up. She slipped into her day dress, a garment that spoke of practicality rather than fashion, and made her way to the kitchen.

With a hopeful smile playing on her lips, Evelyn clung to the possibility that this morning might be different, that Charles might greet her with a semblance of warmth. But experience had taught her that his moods were as predictable as the weather in London—mostly dreary with a rare chance of sunshine.

She busied herself with the morning's routine, gathering ingredients for a simple breakfast. The sizzle of eggs in the pan, the aroma of coffee brewing—it was a symphony of domesticity that she conducted with practiced ease. As the shower ceased its hissing, she hastened her efforts, plating Charles' breakfast just as she heard his footsteps approaching.

"Here you go, dear. We're out of pancake mix, so I have to go shopping today," she said, extending the plate towards him as he emerged from the hallway. She then prepared her own plate and joined him at the small dining room table.

Charles took the plate, a nod of acknowledgment his only response. He seemed more interested in the contents of his plate than in the conversation Evelyn attempted to initiate.

"How's work going? Is there anything specific you need from the store?" she asked, trying to pierce the veil of silence that had descended upon them.

"It's fine," Charles replied curtly, his attention fixed on his meal. "Nothing."

Evelyn pressed on, undeterred by his brevity. "Are you sure? I could pick up some more of that coffee you like, or maybe some snacks for the office?"

Charles shook his head, a nonverbal dismissal that spoke volumes. "Don't bother," he muttered, his voice devoid of interest.

The conversation, if it could be called that, dwindled to a series of monosyllabic exchanges, with Evelyn's attempts at dialogue falling on seemingly deaf ears. Charles was present in body, but his mind was elsewhere, locked away in a fortress of preoccupation that Evelyn could not breach.

As they finished their breakfast in silence, Evelyn couldn't help but feel the distance between them growing, a chasm that no amount of small talk could bridge. She cleared the table, her movements automatic, while Charles readied himself for the day ahead, each in their own world, together yet apart.

Evelyn lingered by the door, a silent sentinel observing the morning ritual that had become as familiar as the lines on her own hands. Charles, with the day's armor half donned, struggled with his shoes, his fingers fumbling with the laces. His tie, a strip of silk that refused to conform, dangled rebelliously around his neck.

After several attempts, he sighed, a rare admission of defeat, and turned to Evelyn. "Help me, will you?" he asked, his voice softer than the crisp morning air.

A chuckle escaped Evelyn's lips, a sound tinged with affection and a hint of melancholy. "What would you do without me?" she teased, her hands deftly correcting the rebellious tie, transforming it into a neat knot.

In that fleeting moment, as their eyes met and their hands brushed, a spark of the old warmth flickered between them. Charles allowed a small smile to break through his usual reserve. "I'd be a total wreck," he conceded, the words carrying more truth than jest.

"Have a good day," Evelyn said, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken words. Charles paused, a momentary hesitation as he looked at her. They leaned in, their lips meeting in a brief peck—a stark contrast to the passionate kisses that once lingered between them. It was a fleeting touch, a mere brush of affection that spoke volumes of a love that had once burned brightly but now smoldered in the embers of routine.

He nodded, the ghost of a smile gracing his lips, and with that, he was gone. The door closed with a soft click, leaving Evelyn alone with the echo of a kiss that had become a ritual rather than a romance. She stood there for a moment longer, allowing herself the luxury of reflection before she moved on with her day, the quiet hum of chores awaiting her attention.

The day stretched out before Evelyn, filled with the quiet hum of chores and the rhythm of routine. Yet, as the afternoon waned and the time to prepare dinner approached, she made a decision. She would not rush, would not cut her personal time short. She allowed herself the luxury of lingering, knowing well that the food would sit, growing cold, a silent testament to the space growing between them. It was a small act of defiance, a quiet rebellion against the unspoken rules that governed her days. And as the evening shadows lengthened, Evelyn found solace in the stillness, in the knowledge that sometimes, it was okay to let the world wait. 

With the house now quiet, Evelyn set about her daily chores with a practiced rhythm. She fluffed the cushions on the sofa, each pat releasing a small puff of dust into the sunlit room. The vacuum hummed as she guided it across the carpet, its steady drone a companion to her solitary dance. She dusted the shelves, her fingers tracing the spines of books and the curves of picture frames, each a silent sentinel to the life she and Charles had built.

The laundry was next, a task she approached with a sort of meditative focus. She sorted, washed, and hung each piece with care, the fresh scent of detergent mingling with the crisp air from the open window. The garden called to her next, and she tended to the plants with a gentle touch, pruning and watering, encouraging life in the small patch of green that was her domain.

As the afternoon waned, Evelyn prepared for her trip to the market. She changed into a comfortable pair of shoes and grabbed her reusable shopping bags, each one a testament to her commitment to the environment. She checked her list one last time, ensuring she had everything she needed before stepping out the door.

Evelyn stepped out into the cobbled streets of Willow Creek, her senses immediately filled with the town's daily symphony. The clatter of horse-drawn carriages and the calls of street vendors vying for attention created a lively backdrop to her walk. The air was tinged with the scent of fresh bread from the bakery mingling with the smokiness from the blacksmith's forge.

The town was a tapestry of activity; children darted between stalls, their laughter piercing the hum of conversation. Men haggled over prices, their voices booming with authority, while women, their eyes downcast, moved gracefully with their baskets, their presence demure yet essential to the fabric of daily life.

As Evelyn passed by the milliner's shop, she admired the latest bonnets displayed in the window, each adorned with ribbons and feathers, a silent nod to the fashions of the time. She knew better than to linger, aware of the unspoken rules that governed her actions. Her gaze shifted to the ground as she walked, her steps measured and purposeful.

As Evelyn walked through the heart of Willow Creek, the town's architecture spoke of its history and ambitions. The buildings, primarily constructed of red brick, stood as testaments to the industrious spirit of its inhabitants. They were designed not just for function but with an eye toward the future, their facades adorned with ornamental cornices and wrought iron railings that hinted at a touch of elegance amidst practicality.

The windows of these buildings were tall and clear, allowing the golden sunlight to pour into the rooms within. They seemed to watch over the streets, reflecting the daily bustle and the changing seasons. Above all, the church dominated the skyline, its white steeple rising high above the surrounding structures. It was a beacon of faith and order, its bell tolling the hours, calling the faithful to service, and marking the passage of time.

The town square was the focal point of Willow Creek, a space where the community converged. At its center stood the statue of the town's founder, a man whose vision had carved a settlement from the wilderness. The bronze figure was captured mid-stride, a permanent march forward, symbolizing progress and the unyielding resolve of the townsfolk. His face, though cast in metal, conveyed a sense of determination and the weight of responsibility he bore in shaping the town's destiny.

Around the square, life teemed with energy. Shopkeepers swept their front stoops, preparing for a day of commerce, while women in long skirts and bonnets perused the goods, their conversations a soft murmur punctuating the morning air. Children played near the fountain, their games a blend of innocence and the mimicry of their elders' toils.

The cobblestone paths that crisscrossed the square were worn smooth by countless footsteps, each stone a silent witness to the lives and stories that had unfolded there. The air was filled with the scent of fresh produce from the market stalls and the sound of the blacksmith's hammer against the anvil—a chorus of industry and community that defined the rhythm of Willow Creek.

Despite the vibrancy around her, Evelyn felt the constraints of her era acutely. She moved through the town with a grace that belied the tension beneath her calm exterior. Her interactions were brief, polite exchanges that revealed nothing of the thoughts that swirled in her mind. She was a woman of her time, her freedoms limited, her role prescribed, yet her spirit remained unbroken.

As she neared the market, the colors of the produce on display caught her eye, a vivid contrast to the muted tones of her dress. She paused for a moment, allowing herself the simple pleasure of admiring the array of fruits and vegetables, a reminder of nature's bounty and the simple joys that life in Willow Creek could offer.

Evelyn ascended the steps to the market, her hands brushing against the wooden banister, worn smooth by countless others who had come before her. The open door welcomed her into a familiar world, one that greeted her with the comforting scents of pantry staples and the cool breath of dairy products nestled in their coolers.

The familiar scents of fresh produce and baked goods enveloping her as she grabbed a cart and began her journey through the aisles. The first aisle held the dry goods, and she placed bags of flour, sugar, and salt into her cart, envisioning the breads and pastries she would bake.

The aroma of coffee drew her to the next aisle, where she selected a bag of rich, dark beans, thinking of the brisk mornings they would enliven. Alongside, she chose a tin of fragrant tea leaves, anticipating the soothing afternoons they would provide.

As she turned the corner, the scent of spices filled the air, a mosaic of exotic aromas. She picked out a few favorites—cinnamon for her apple pies and cumin for hearty stews. The clinking of canned goods accompanied her selection of peas and beans, staples for her winter larder.

The wine and whiskey aisle was next, the heady scent of aged spirits hinting at the warmth they would offer on cold evenings. She chose a bottle of each, thinking of the dinners they would complement.

In the produce section, the earthy smell of fresh vegetables mingled with the sweetness of fruit. She selected cabbages and radishes for salads, potatoes for roasting, and rice for side dishes. Oranges, bananas, and apples joined her cart, a promise of fresh juices and snacks.

The butcher's counter offered salted meats, their savory aroma tempting her to plan Sunday roasts and weekday suppers. In the dairy section, she added milk, butter, and cheese to her cart, the butter for her baking and the cheese for her platters.

Finally, she reached the bakery stand, where the scent of freshly baked bread was irresistible. She chose a loaf with a golden crust, imagining the comfort it would bring to her table.

With her cart full, Evelyn made her way to the checkout, her heart content with the knowledge that her pantry would be well-stocked with the best Willow Creek had to offer. The market, with its array of scents and textures, was a place of abundance, and she moved through it with the grace of one who knows the value of each item chosen, each a small piece of the life she nurtured at home.

Evelyn carefully placed her items onto the counter, the array of goods forming a neat line across the wooden surface. She was mindful not to ring the bell too soon, a small courtesy she extended to Mr. and Mrs. Collins, whom she had come to know well over her many visits to the market. She had often helped the elderly couple with errands when her schedule allowed, and it seemed only right to wait until she was fully ready before summoning them with the bell—unless, of course, they were already there, playfully insisting she ring it.

As she continued to unload her cart, the sound of heavy footsteps approached from the back. Without turning, she called out, "Hello, Mr. Collins. How are you today?" The lack of response prompted her to glance over her shoulder, and she was taken aback by the sight of an unfamiliar face.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were Mr. Collins," she said, a mix of surprise and embarrassment in her voice.

The man chuckled, stepping up to the counter with a broad, toothy grin. "Well then, you thought right. Technically, I am Mr. Collins," he replied, extending his hand toward her. "I'm Jacob Collins. Mr. Collins was my father."

Evelyn returned the smile and shook his hand, her mind racing to piece together the situation. "I'm Evelyn Hartley, and I'm sorry, was? Did he...?" she began, but Jacob cut her off.

"Pass away? Yes. Both him and my mother, actually," he said, his demeanor shifting, the joviality fading as he avoided holding Evelyn's gaze for too long.

The news hung in the air between them, a sudden cloud casting a shadow over the familiar warmth of the market. Evelyn felt a pang of loss for the couple she had grown fond of, their absence marking the end of a weekly escape from her home life. She offered Jacob a sympathetic nod, understanding all too well the weight of the words left unspoken.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Jacob," Evelyn said, her voice soft with empathy.

Jacob gave a small nod, his eyes distant. "Thank you, Evelyn. But it's okay. It's not as much a loss as it is a relief. They had both been sick for a long time."

Evelyn's heart ached at his words. She knew all too well the toll of watching loved ones suffer. "I used to help your parents with things around here. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ask," she offered, hoping to provide some comfort.

Jacob's smile returned, albeit faintly. "I appreciate that, Evelyn. Thank you."

With that, he began to ring up her items, placing them in bags which he handed to her. Evelyn put the bags back in her cart, then paused, looking at Jacob. "Would it be alright if I took the cart with me? I can have a friend return it later. It was an agreement between Anna Whitmore, your mother, and me."

Jacob nodded, his smile growing a bit brighter. "Of course, Evelyn. That sounds like something my mother would arrange. Please, feel free to take the cart." With that, he returned to his work, the familiar rhythm of the market slowly

Evelyn's steps were light as she made her way down the road, the familiar scenes of children playing filling her view. Their carefree shouts and laughter were a stark contrast to the somber news she carried with her. As she walked, a voice called out to her, lifting her spirits ever so slightly.

"Hey, Anna, how are you?" Evelyn greeted, as her friend approached with a stride that matched the rhythm of the market day.

"Fine, and yourself?" Anna replied, her voice carrying a note of casual curiosity.

"Quite well. I was just at Collins' market. Did you know they passed away?" Evelyn's words were gentle, yet they bore the weight of unexpected news.

Anna's face took on a look of shock and sadness as she shook her head in disbelief. "No, I hadn't heard," she murmured.

"Apparently, they've been really sick and passed away. Their son's in the store now," Evelyn explained with a nonchalant shrug, though her heart felt heavy with the news.

This prompted Anna to glance back towards the store where, right on cue, Jacob emerged to chat with some of the children playing outside. He tossed each of them a piece of candy, his generosity drawing smiles from the young faces.

"I didn't know they had a son," Anna admitted, her eyes widening as she observed the new proprietor.

"I did, but I thought he was just a tyke," Evelyn said with another shrug, her earlier assumptions dissolving in the light of reality. "But he agreed to let us use the cart, so that will be nice. I was expecting him to be a little hostile about it since the three of us don't know each other."

As they reached the first block point, Evelyn continued, "I'm also supposed to come down this Thursday and tidy up the outside. He agreed to that too."

Anna nodded, visibly impressed by the ease of the new man in town and his seemingly too-trustworthy manner. "That's very kind of him. It seems he's settling in well," she remarked.

The two women continued their walk, the conversation turning to lighter topics as they left the market behind. Evelyn felt a sense of relief and anticipation for Thursday, grateful for the opportunity to step away from the confines of her home and into the bustling life of the market once more.

"You're welcome to come in if you want, Anna," Evelyn said as they reached the yard of her 'humble abode.' Anna rolled her eyes playfully. "Did you expect me to let you put all of this away on your own? I know Charles is no good when he's here, so I'll make your life easier for when he is." Anna said as she walked to the front of the cart, lifting the frame as Evelyn did the same, and together they carried the cart to the front porch.

Once there, they set it down as Evelyn unlocked the door, allowing Anna to open it as Evelyn pushed the cart over the threshold. This was an occasional thing that happened nearly every Tuesday. In fact, this was how the girls had met—running into each other at the market and then discovering they walked the same path home. Over the years, this serendipitous meeting had evolved into a routine.

As Evelyn wheeled the cart into the kitchen area, the girls resumed their conversation, which meandered from the latest town gossip to the most recent episode of the popular serial that had the whole town talking—and them, shedding tears the night before. It was these moments, simple and shared, that wove the fabric of their friendship, binding them with threads stronger than the yarns spun in the tales they recounted.

With the groceries neatly stowed away, Anna assisted Evelyn in preparing a modest lunch of small sandwiches and a pot of coffee. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, a veneer of normalcy masking the deeper struggles each woman faced. To an outsider, their laughter and light-hearted banter belied the true extent of their suffering.

Transitioning from the kitchen to the living room, Evelyn flicked on the television, its low hum serving as a subtle soundtrack to their afternoon. Here, amidst the comfort of the familiar, they often delved into more serious discussions, particularly about their lives with their husbands.

Evelyn's recounts were typically uneventful, but today she shared the details of a minor quarrel from the previous night. Anna listened intently, her brow furrowing in concern as the narrative unfolded.Anna's voice carried a mix of confusion and concern as she recounted the evening's events to Evelyn. "Well, he came in at the same time as always, 4:17," she began, and Evelyn's thoughts immediately interjected, This wasn't the time Charles came home. The detail stuck with her, an anomaly in the pattern of their daily lives.

"But instead of sitting down, he went straight into the shower." Anna continued, her brows knitting together in a frown. "And when he came out and we sat at the table, I asked why he didn't wait until after dinner or even offer if I wanted to join him."

Evelyn listened intently, her own experiences casting a shadow over Anna's narrative.

"He slammed his fists on the table," Anna's voice grew tense, "telling me his work was stressful and sometimes a man needs his own time."

The words hung heavily between them, a shared understanding of the unspoken hardships they endured. Evelyn's heart went out to Anna, her own struggles reflected in the story she heard.

Evelyn shook her head, the parallels between their stories unsettling. "One day, Anna Marie, we'll have our freedom," she declared with quiet determination. "The NOW is organizing a rally this Friday. Will you join?"

Anna hesitated, her mind weighing the risks. "I'm not sure. It's quite the journey, and if the police intervene... I'm not as swift on my feet as you," she admitted, a hint of worry in her voice.

Evelyn's response was reassuring, her tone light. "Don't worry, Anna. I wouldn't let anything happen to you," she promised, a smile gracing her lips.

Their laughter faded into a comfortable silence, the gravity of their conversation lingering in the air. Anna glanced at the clock, a subtle cue that it was time to depart. She rose, her movements signaling the end of their shared respite.

Anna glanced at the clock and noted the time. "It's 1:30; I should get going to do my own shopping and start preparing dinner," she said, a hint of reluctance in her voice.

Evelyn nodded in agreement, feeling the afternoon's companionship drawing to a close. "I should attend to the same," she replied, her tone matching Anna's. Together, they maneuvered the cart from the kitchen through the house, navigating the narrow hallway to the front door.

Once outside, they descended the few steps to the walkway, the cart's wheels thumping gently against each step. At the bottom, they paused, sharing a warm, comforting hug—a silent exchange of support and understanding. "Take care, Anna," Evelyn said softly.

"Until next time, Evelyn," Anna responded, her smile a parting gift.

Evelyn watched as Anna walked away, her figure gradually disappearing between the buildings until she was out of sight. A familiar frown tugged at Evelyn's lips as she turned back to her home, the joy of friendship momentarily overshadowed by the return to solitude.

She ascended the steps and re-entered the house, the click of the door behind her echoing in the empty space. Drifting back to the living room, she reached for the television, flicking the knob through the stations. The chatter of voices filled the room, a poor substitute for Anna's presence.

A sigh escaped her as she settled on a talk show discussing the women's rights movement. The conversation on the screen captivated her, resonating with her own thoughts and desires. As she watched, time slipped away, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself the luxury of forgetting her husband, her 'duties,' and the confines of her expected role. In the voices advocating for change, she found a spark of hope, a reminder that there was a world beyond her doorstep where her dreams could find a voice.