The Day I Packed My Wife’s Bags: When “Self-Care” Became My Financial Nightmare
When I came home from my twelve-hour shift at the warehouse, exhausted and aching in places I didn’t know could ache, my wife looked up from the couch and said, “This pigsty is embarrassing. What do you even do all day besides work?”
She was standing in our living room with fresh highlights in her hair that I knew had cost at least $300, perfectly manicured nails that had cost another hundred dollars at the salon she visited religiously every week, and shopping bags from her fourth trip to the mall this week alone hanging off both arms like trophies. She was pointing accusingly at a single coffee cup I’d left on the coffee table before rushing out the door for my 5:00 a.m.
shift that morning.
“Rebecca,” I said slowly, blinking at the chaos that had gradually consumed our house over the past three years, “I just worked twelve straight hours at the warehouse, lifting boxes that weigh more than you do. You’ve been home all day.
Every single day.”
She laughed—actually laughed—and dropped dramatically onto the couch she’d bought last month for $4,000 that we absolutely couldn’t afford, a purchase that had maxed out yet another credit card I didn’t even know she’d applied for. “I’ve been busy too,” she said defensively, flipping her freshly highlighted hair like she was in a shampoo commercial.
“The salon appointment took four full hours today.
These highlights don’t just happen by themselves, you know. It’s a process.” She waved her hand through her hair as if this were irrefutable proof of hard labor. “Then I had lunch with Britney at that new place downtown—you know, the one with the truffle fries—and afterward we went shopping because she wanted my opinion on some outfits.
I’m absolutely exhausted.”
She kicked off designer shoes that had cost more than I made in an entire week of backbreaking work—shoes she’d worn exactly twice since buying them two months ago.
“You went shopping again?” I asked, trying desperately to keep my voice level and calm because I already knew exactly where this conversation was headed. We’d had variations of it at least once a week for the past year.
“Rebecca, the credit cards are completely maxed out. All of them.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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