I remember just standing there in the kitchen one morning, holding a banana and reading that one in disbelief!
Look, I’m not some neglectful wife who doesn’t want to do all these things. I work full-time, and so does my husband, Jason. We both wake up at 6 a.m., I get home earlier around 6 p.m., yet somehow, I was the one being held to some 1950s sitcom housewife standard!
The irony of it all was that I was being judged by a woman who spent her days watching crime dramas in our living room, pretending to be exhausted by 10 a.m.!
The notes weren’t funny. They were personal, targeted, and ubiquitous.
I kept them at first, stuffed them into a drawer. Maybe I was hoping I could laugh at them one day, or perhaps I was just collecting evidence. But each time I tried to bring them up to Jason, he’d fidget, exhale, then say things like, “She doesn’t mean it like that,” or “That’s just how she communicates.”
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