The argument had been building quietly for months, yet that evening it surfaced suddenly when my husband Kevin Holt arrived home late again carrying the faint scent of perfume that did not belong to me.
“Please do not start another scene tonight,” he muttered while tossing his car keys onto the marble kitchen counter.
“I am not starting anything,” I replied quietly while leaning against the sink, “I am just very tired.”
“Tired of what exactly,” he asked with a sharp laugh that once sounded charming but now felt painfully cold.
“I am working nonstop to support us while you sit at home with no job and endless complaints.”
“While I what,” I whispered slowly.
“While I pretend I do not see the messages from the woman in your office who calls you after midnight.”
Kevin froze in the middle of the kitchen as if I had shattered something invisible. A shadow crossed his face and then his expression hardened. “You know what,” he said flatly, “if you are so unhappy here then you should leave.”
At first I thought he was speaking out of anger. “Leave,” I repeated in disbelief.