Years ago John had said that my ability to self-diagnose crazy behavior and apologize for it within two hours was exceptionally rare for women. I’d held on to that compliment for years, extracting every bit of its warmth.
John put the refillable seltzer bottles in the dishwasher and melted them because he hadn’t read the instructions. He’d put most but not all of the dishes through the washer, wiped no surfaces, cleaned no cutting boards. There was no muesli. The floor needed sweeping. I rage-cleaned and ordered new…
John did the laundry at the laundromat but forgot half of it at home and brought home what he did wash still damp. He didn’t apologize or admit he’d made a mistake. Then he made the child apologize to him for noting that Dad had put his shirt on backward.
John didn’t just need to win the fight; he needed me to agree that it was my responsibility never to say anything that might make him feel as if he’d ever done anything wrong. Feeling that he’d done something wrong really threatened his sense of entitlement.
I met a new friend for lunch and drank a glass of wine and then heard myself say to her, I think my marriage might be over. I cried pathetically.
