Last Sunday, my husband dropped a bombshell.
“They decided,” he said smugly, “that you should quit your job and work for Mom.”
I blinked. “What?”
“She needs help. She’ll pay you.”
I laughed. “Oh, absolutely. I’ll quit right now.”
But my plan had already begun.
The next morning, I dressed sharply, ignoring the cleaning supplies my husband expected me to grab.
At 8:30 a.m., his mother greeted me with, “You’re late.”
I smiled. “Three minutes. Duly noted.”
She handed me a list. I played along.
Weeks later, she took a call.
“What do you mean, she’s been looking into shelters?”
She turned to me, eyes cold. “You’re not leaving.”
I exhaled slowly. “Watch me.”
That night, I packed.
My husband scoffed. “Where will you go?”
“Anywhere but here.”
Months later, I saw his mother. “Paul’s doing fine.”
I smiled. “So am I.”
And that was the end of that.
