I wanted to make everything as easy as possible for my husband.All Brandon had to do was sort out the kids’ cereal in the morning and get them dressed, which would be easy enough because I had sorted the kids’ outfits by day. The laundry had been done before I left, too. Everything was set for my husband to take over seamlessly.
And yet, as I walked into my home, craving the comfort of the house I had left for a week, I was only met by disappointment. Walking into the kitchen was even worse. The sink was piled with used mugs, and the fridge was nearly empty, save for bottles of sauce and a pack of beer. How had everything unraveled so quickly? I heard the back door open and close; Brandon had been outside with the kids when I walked into the mess. “Honey!” he said, rushing toward me to hug me. “I’m so glad you’re back! I’m starving!” I met his greeting with silence; his words felt like a slap in the face. “You didn’t make enough food for the week, Jo,” he added nonchalantly. “I’ve had to give the kids pizza for the past two nights. We’re also out of milk. And I’ve had to focus on work, not worry about the house.” That was the final straw.The frustration and fatigue of months, no, years, of feeling undervalued and overburdened, boiled over. “Not enough food?” I asked, my voice eerily calm, despite how I felt on the inside. I wanted to scream. I didn’t wait for a response. I didn’t even go outside to see my kids, Ava and Max. Grabbing my still-packed suitcase, I turned around to leave. “I’m leaving, Brandon, and I won’t be back until this house is the way I left it.
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