…ask me during client meetings why I couldn’t “just work from the bedroom like a normal wife.”
I kept trying to be patient because my husband Ethan always looked exhausted stuck between us. Every argument ended the same way. Him rubbing his forehead, asking me not to escalate things, promising it was temporary while his aunt “got back on her feet.”
But temporary turned into eight months.
Then came the dinner that finally broke something in me.
Mrs. Holloway asked if I could cover Diane’s car payment because “family helps family.” I said no. Calmly. Just no. I’d already paid their utilities twice, replaced their refrigerator, and covered braces for one of the kids. Diane rolled her eyes. My mother-in-law grabbed a plate from the sink and threw it so hard it shattered against the cabinet beside my head.
And Ethan still turned to me first.
“Please don’t make this worse,” he whispered.
I remember staring at him thinking, You’re more afraid of upsetting her than losing me.
That night I couldn’t sleep, so I went downstairs for water. Diane’s purse was sitting open on the counter with papers spilling halfway out. I wasn’t snooping at first. I just recognized my name on one of the envelopes.
It was a life insurance application.
My policy number.
My salary information.
And under “primary beneficiary,” in Diane Holloway’s handwriting, was my husband’s name.