The living room was strewn with Nigel's leftover takeout containers and instant noodle cups. His dirty clothes were everywhere on the couch.
The bathroom wastebasket overflowed with used tissues, taking up half the bathroom space.
Suppressing my anger, I asked, "Where's your mother? Wasn't she supposed to help take care of me during my recovering?"
Mentioning his mother immediately set Nigel off. He threw what he was holding onto the floor and turned to me with extreme annoyance.
"Julia, you're so high-maintenance. It's just childbirth, not some major illness. You seriously expect my mom to wait on you hand and foot? What a joke."
Nigel's words made me realize the importance of education.
Only someone as ignorant as him could say something so foolish.
My abdomen had seven layers of stitches, and the bleeding had just stopped. I could barely move around. Yet, he called me high-maintenance.
Seeing Nigel sprawled on the couch, I let out a cold snort.
For now, having just given birth and feeling weak, I decided not to argue with him.
If Susan Craigie didn't want to help, I wouldn't force it.