If I asked him to watch the baby for ten minutes, he would pretend not to hear. If he did agree, he wouldn't move—his eyes stayed glued to the screen.
Before marriage, he used to help with chores. Now, he stepped over piles of laundry and ignored the clutter as if it didn't exist.
If I complained, his face would darken.
"You stay home all day. You do a little cleaning and watch a kid. Why are you always acting like you're so exhausted?"
The ice in my chest hardened.
I tried to talk to him, to share small moments from my day. At first, he would grunt in response. Later, he just snapped.
"Are you annoying or what? I don't care about these trivial things. I work all day. Can't you just let me have some peace?"
He slammed the bedroom door in my face. Moments later, the sound of video game gunfire and his laughter drifted through the wood.
I stood in the hallway, blinking back tears, refusing to let them fall.
---
Then came the night our son spiked a high fever.
He cried until his voice was hoarse.
"Shut him up!" my husband yelled from the other room. "You can't even take care of a child properly?"
Outside, a storm was raging. I begged him to drive us to the hospital.