Her life used to be transparently all-American. She was the perfect wife and mother before malignant fingers tore apart her body and rewove the fabric of her life. She’s far from perfect now, she’s not even technically sure that she’s a woman anymore, but she tries to be a good wife to the man she loves and to the two women that he has found to compensate for her imperfection. She doesn’t complain, she just grins and bears it for the sake of children that she pretends are her own, children that she can no longer give him. She doesn’t allow herself to wonder if she would have been enough if things had have been different and she doesn’t acknowledge that it hurt her when he went and found a replacement while she still lay in a hospital bed. He found an alternate who was everything he claimed to abhor and because of that she is forced to try to squash herself back into an ill-fitting mould, she may have survived but a death occurred nonetheless. A corpse smiles and waves and does it’s best to create a façade as fake as their three houses and the thing that remains pretends she can barely tolerate Nicki because no-one, absolutely no-one, can discover she knows what it feels like to have Nicki’s skin against hers and that she has watched Nicki’s eyelids flutter as she climaxes or know that she has no problem with the idea that Nicki is her wife.