“I just thought… my mom always—” he sputtered.
“Your mom chose that for herself,” I pointed out. “Or, at least, I hope she did.
But you chose it for me.”
He ran his hands through his hair. “Fine. I get it.
The uniform was too much.”
“The uniform was a symptom,” I corrected him. “I agreed to try things your way when we married, Derek, but I never signed up to be your servant. If that’s what you want, then you should’ve stayed single and hired a housekeeper.”
I hung the apron on a hook in the kitchen.
“I’m never wearing that thing again,” I declared.
“And you need to think long and hard about whether you married me because you love me, or because you wanted a replacement Mommy.”
He started to protest, to insist he married me for love, but I walked out of the room and went to bed.
Monday morning came, and Derek kissed me goodbye like nothing had happened. But when he returned that evening, he walked in the door pale and tight-lipped, dropping his keys with a clatter on the entry table.
“Rough day?” I asked from the couch where I sat in jeans and a t-shirt, laptop open on my knees.
“I got called into HR,” he said hoarsely.
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