I stood at the sink scrubbing dish after dish. It was like the day after Thanksgiving, and nevermind that the amount of bowls and silverware only appeared monumentally huge because of our smaller RV sink. What mattered was I was singlehandedly tackling the leaning tower of plates and pans on my own. Behind me my husband played a game on his phone, and the ping, ping sounds of his imaginary battle did little to soothe my feelings of neglect. There he was engrossed in his phone while I slaved away at the sink.
When he had mentioned offhand the dreaded takeover of dirty dishes the night before I had commented, “No problem. We can do them together tomorrow.”
Yet here I was. By myself. He didn’t even lift a finger to help me.
I have to work tomorrow, I thought angrily.
My thoughts of being put upon fed into one another, and like fertilizer my discontented mental mayhem made my anger grow. The more I thought about how much I did for the relationship, the madder I became.
He’s certainly not working tomorrow. I mused mentally. What will he be doing?! Probably playing on his phone some more!
I worked, I brought home the bacon. He stayed home. I mean, I wasn’t asking for a lot. Just some help with the dishes.
But he always does the dishes, this meek, quiet part of my mind commented.
Darn her. Yeah, he did. He always did the dishes.
He does the laundry too, the wise, mild-mannered me spoke.
