Dishes piled up. Laundry became “my responsibility.” And when I asked why he no longer helped, he shrugged and said, “Mom never worked. She took care of the home.
It just makes sense.”
We both worked long hours. I made more than he did. But somehow, he had become the man who expected praise for taking the trash out once a week.
Helen didn’t make it easy.
She visited often, far too often, and always came with unsolicited advice.
Once, when Peter had stepped out to take a call, Helen sat across from me and stirred her tea in silence. Then she said quietly, “It’s hard letting go, you know? He used to come to me for everything.
Now I don’t know what he needs me for anymore.” She looked up at me, her smile tight. “I guess that’s just how it goes.” I didn’t know what to say.
“A wife should make her husband’s life easier,” she said one evening, while I reheated leftovers after another ten-hour day.
I looked at Peter, waiting for him to speak up. He didn’t.
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