Jason had always struggled with his stomach. Because he couldn’t cook, I took it upon myself to care for him—making fresh meals for him three times a day. His stomach couldn’t handle spicy food, so I gave it up, even though I loved chili.
He liked fish, so I bought the freshest catch every day, even though I was allergic to the smell.
I treated him like a mother would, making sure every little detail was perfect. But now, looking back, I see how foolish I was.
He could cook. He knew how.
But he pretended to be helpless, using me like a free maid, taking my care for granted.
I opened our chat history—seven years’ worth of messages.
They used to sparkle with the happiness and sweetness of our love. But now, all they did was leave a bitter taste in my mouth.
I scrolled to a conversation from a month ago.
[Emma, I’m working overtime tonight. Can’t have dinner with you.]
[Emma, I’ve got a client tonight. Can’t go to the movies.]
[Emma, I’m busy tonight...]
A string of "can’ts," each one landing like a slap to my face, harsh and unrelenting.
I kept scrolling, backtracking to two months ago.
[Jason, you’ve been working overtime a lot lately. You need to take care of yourself.]