***
That evening, I tried harder than usual to be kind.
Scott had finally booked a paid weekend gig, and I had planned a small surprise dinner for the next night to celebrate. I had ordered food, bought dessert, and invited Chelsea and a few friends.
By 10:30, I was still at the kitchen table, finishing a report due by eight the next morning. My eyes burned.
Scott was on the couch watching TV, his takeout boxes spread across the coffee table. The trash bag sat tied by the back door. The sink was full.
I tried harder than usual to be kind.
“Scott?”
He didn’t look away from the screen. “Yeah?”
“Can you throw those containers away and load the dishwasher before bed? I really can’t wake up to this mess tomorrow.”
He sighed. “I said I’d do it later.”
“You said that two hours ago.”
“I really can’t wake up to this mess.”
“I’m relaxing, Ariana.”
“I just need help, Scott.”
He lowered the TV volume. “Stop acting like you own me.”
My hand went still on the chair. “What?”
“You’re always telling me what to do.”
“I asked you to throw away your own garbage.”
“I just need help, Scott.”
He laughed once, sharp and ugly.
“You’re not my wife, so stop expecting me to act like your husband.”
The room went quiet.
I waited for him to take it back.
He didn’t.
Instead, he picked up the remote again.
“You’re not my wife.”
