Last Tuesday night, I looked at my husband’s phone and found my underwear displayed like comedy material for a room full of grown men. By Saturday, those same men were standing in my living room holding beer and wondering why all their mothers had been invited too.
Last Tuesday, Kurt’s phone buzzed on the nightstand while he was in the shower.
I glanced over and saw the group name: “NO WOMEN ALLOWED!🚫 “
Then I saw the photo, and my heart sank.
It was my beige underwear, spread across our bed like it belonged in an exhibit.
I saw the photo, and my heart sank.
Under it, one of Kurt’s friends had written, “Didn’t know you were married to the manager of a nursing home, man! 🤣🤣🤣“
I actually tried to explain it away for a second. Maybe it wasn’t mine. Maybe they were joking about laundry. Maybe marriage had finally made me delusional.
Then I opened the full chat. There were more photos. My bras. My postpartum underwear. My soft cotton undergarments. Kurt had been sending them to the group like he was doing stand-up.
“I don’t remember marrying a grandma! Guys, never get married. 🤔“
“This is what happens when comfort wins. 🫢“
The men piled on, laughing as if my underwear had entered the room and asked to be roasted.
Kurt had been sending them to the group like he was doing stand-up.
Kurt and I had been married for seven years. My body had carried three children, survived sleepless nights, nursing, school mornings, and years of putting everybody else’s needs first. I wasn’t ashamed of it. Or at least I had worked hard not to be.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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