I picked up my phone and called a towing company.
The room got quiet enough that I could hear the commentator on the TV.
My husband laughed. “Very funny.”
“I’m serious,” I said.
One of his friends sat up in my recliner. “Come on now.”
“No,” I said. “I’m done.”
For four years I’d heard the same promises. Next week will be different. We’ll clean up. We’ll bring our own drinks. It was always something.
The towing company answered.
When I started reading license plate numbers out loud, everybody finally realized I wasn’t bluffing.
My husband stood up fast. “You can’t tow my friends’ trucks.”
“I can tow any vehicle parked on property I pay for.”
That landed harder than I expected.
Because the truth was, I paid most of the bills. My double shifts covered the mortgage when his hours got cut. The coolers they emptied? I bought them. The groceries disappearing from the fridge? Mine.
One of the guys grabbed his keys immediately.
Another muttered that this was ridiculous.
I agreed.
It was ridiculous that I’d spent four years cleaning up after grown men every Monday morning.
Within ten minutes the game was still on, but the garage was half empty.
My husband was furious.
He followed me into the kitchen demanding to know why I had embarrassed him.
I looked at the overflowing trash can, the muddy footprints across my floor, and the beer bottles lined up on my counter.
Then I asked him a question.
“When was the last time you cleaned up after one of these Sundays?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
The next Sunday rolled around and I left for work expecting another fight.
Instead, the garage was empty.
My husband sat at the kitchen table by himself.
A few weeks later one of his buddies stopped by and actually knocked on the front door first.
Turns out they still watched football together.
Just not in my garage.
And somehow their friendships survived the tragedy of having to buy their own beer and clean up their own mess.