There was a time, earlier in my marriage, when every morning as I walked into the kitchen I braced myself for the rage and resentment that would well up in me.
Cupboards left open. Dirty dishes in the sink. Coffee cups strewn around the house. And usually a pair of slippers or shoes, with inside-out socks, on the floor somewhere nearby. Even when I had left the house spotless the night before, I’d wake to a scene of disarray — the mess my husband had left behind on his way out the door for work.
I didn’t know which scenario seemed worse, my husband’s consciously expecting me to clean up these messes or his truly not noticing them at all. I found myself silently tallying these small resentments, furious and flummoxed in turn that he seemed oblivious to