A couple months ago, my husband decided to go watch TV while I cleaned up after dinner. I’d been cooking for an hour plus, and I was not amused. It didn’t help that this had kind of become his MO of late. But I took a few deep breaths and reminded myself that he works hard so I don’t have to, and that he deserves better than passive-aggressive bullshit from me.
Not that he didn’t deserve shit from me. He just deserved honest, direct shit.
So I told him that on nights when I cook, it means a lot to me when he helps clean up afterwards, because I’m usually sick of being in the kitchen by that point. He apologized and we moved on.
And pretty much every night since then, if I cook, he cleans.
Nobody writes about real life in romance novels. But sometimes we miss the love story happening right in front of our eyes.
I have no intention of missing mine.