When I came home from my twelve-hour warehouse shift at seven in the evening, exhausted and aching, my wife was standing in the living room pointing at a coffee cup I’d left on the table that morning. “This pigsty is embarrassing,” Rebecca said, fresh highlights gleaming in the lamplight. “What do you even do all day?”
I blinked at her, then at the disaster that had become our house.
Dishes piled in the sink.
Laundry overflowing from baskets. Takeout containers scattered across the counter.
The bathroom I’d cleaned two weeks ago now sporting a film of grime. “Rebecca,” I said slowly, “I just worked twelve hours at the warehouse.
You’ve been home all day.”
She laughed and dropped onto the couch she’d bought last month for four thousand dollars we couldn’t afford, shopping bags from her fourth mall trip this week dangling from her arm.
“I’ve been busy too. The salon took four hours. These highlights don’t just happen.” She waved her freshly colored hair like it was proof of labor.
“Then I had lunch with Britney and we went shopping.
I’m exhausted.”
She kicked off designer shoes that cost more than I made in a week. “You went shopping again?” I kept my voice level because I already knew where this was headed.
“The credit cards are maxed.”
She rolled her eyes. “I needed new workout clothes.
How am I supposed to stay attractive for you if I don’t have proper athleisure?”
The eight-hundred-dollar Peloton she’d bought three months ago sat in the corner, serving as an expensive clothing rack.
She hadn’t worked out once. “The dishes are piled up,” I said. “The laundry hasn’t been done in two weeks.
The bathroom is growing things.”
Rebecca stood up, suddenly angry like I’d accused her of a crime.
“So clean it. You live here too.
Why is housework always my job?”
She hadn’t had a job in three years. “Because I work sixty hours a week to pay for your shopping,” I said, feeling the exhaustion settle into my bones, “and you’re home all day doing nothing.”
She gasped like I’d slapped her.
“Nothing?
I maintain myself. Do you know how much work it is to look this good?” Her hand went to her face, presenting it like evidence. “The skincare routine alone takes two hours.”
Two hours putting on creams that cost more than our groceries.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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