After a sleepless, tormented night, I found myself struggling to fall asleep the next morning. Just as I was finally drifting off, Zane's insistent knocking on the door yanked me back to reality. "Amy, where did you put my navy-blue tie?"
Frustration boiled over as I hurled a pillow at the door. "Where else could it be? It's in the rice cooker!"
Over the past eight years of our relationship and four years of marriage, I had meticulously managed every aspect of his daily life. Our home was a testament to my organizational skills, with his wardrobe arranged neatly and every piece of clothing in its rightful place. Yet, despite this, he continually relied on me to find his belongings—sometimes even his socks.
I used to think that without me, he would be utterly lost. But it became increasingly clear that he was merely accustomed to my constant support. In front of Maeve, Zane was considerate and attentive, even knowing the specific type of lingerie she preferred. It was a stark contrast to the way he treated me. Over the years, it became painfully obvious that in his eyes, I was nothing more than a glorified housekeeper.