The cheerful red wedding decorations had been thrown into the trash.
"Ayden said they looked ugly. Honestly, I didn’t like them either, so I tossed them," Valerie hastily explained when she saw me looking at the trash bin.
"He has a heart condition, so don’t make a fuss over these things," she repeated over and over.
I didn’t argue as I might have in the past. Instead, I headed straight to the guest room.
In the middle of the night, she stood outside my locked door, pillow in hand, looking unsure. But she didn’t hesitate for long before turning and heading into Ayden’s room.
The next morning, I woke to find a full breakfast spread on the table.
In our eight years together, it was the first time I’d seen her cook.
I reached for a sandwich, but she darted over and slapped my hand away.
"Ayden has OCD. Don’t touch it," Valerie snarled, then pointed at the other side. "That one’s yours."
Following her gesture, I saw my "breakfast"—a mess of rejected scraps and poorly made leftovers.
I tossed out a casual "I’m not hungry" and left for breakfast elsewhere.
She didn’t seem to care, too busy spoon-feeding Ayden, who she treated like a "big child."
Later, as I headed back upstairs, she stopped me.