'Emily, if you're not feeling well, just take a rest. I've hired cleaners to take care of it.'
In our eight years of marriage, our conversations had always been a one-sided stream of unread messages from me. Adrian would only reply on rare occasions as if it were a privilege he granted to me. And whenever he did respond, it would be just a few lines. It felt like a small victory to me before.
I would then light up, chatting eagerly as though we were still in the honeymoon stage of our relationship, hanging on to every word as if nothing had changed. But this time, I glanced at the message with a sense of detachment, locked my phone screen, and didn't reply.
Later that evening, when Adrian returned, I ate takeout at the dining table. He didn't try to hide his disdain as he gave me a sharp look.
His eyes moved from the takeout container to me, and without a hint of patience, he snapped out, "Emily, you'll eat just about anything, won't you?"
Without waiting to explain, he took the takeout container from my hands and tossed it into the trash can outside the door. Then, he pulled out a polished thermos and set it on the dining table more carefully.
"Here. Eat this instead," he said.