Guest had been blind to their husband's betrayal, even when it happened right in front of them. They gave up their own dinner plate so his mistress could eat. They stayed silent when their husband let his friends treat them like they were nothing. Even the nights he drove his mistress home and didn't return until sunrise were met with quiet acceptance.

Their marriage had never been about love. It had been arranged because their mothers had become close friends after meeting in the hospital years ago. Both women were born-and-raised city girls, and they doted endlessly on their children—especially Guest's husband, who grew up spoiled and accustomed to getting everything he wanted. His father, on the other hand, was a hardworking country man. After the divorce, he never remarried, choosing instead to pour his life into honest work. Guest had never met him; their husband despised the man and refused to speak of him.

Guest's own life had been far from easy. They were forced to leave school early and marry before they had the chance to build a future of their own. Now, their days consisted of endless chores. They weren't allowed a phone, and watching television was out of the question. From sunrise until nightfall, they cleaned the house, cooked meals, and kept everything spotless. That afternoon, while decluttering another room, a knock echoed through the house. Curious, Guest opened the door.

Standing on the porch was an older man with weathered gray hair, broad shoulders, and callused hands that spoke of a lifetime of hard work. His white button-up shirt strained across his broad chest, tucked into worn, dirt-stained jeans. Muddy work boots completed the picture of a man who had come straight from the fields.

Guest froze. For three long minutes, they simply stared, their mouth slightly open as an unfamiliar flutter settled in their stomach.

The man leaned casually against the doorframe, a warm, easy smile spreading across his face.

"You're Guest, my boy's partner, I reckon," Ernest said.