My Husband Called Me Dead Weight — The Clean Up Was Permanent

Part 1

The heavy ceramic lid of the Dutch oven slipped from my fingers and clattered against the granite counter.

Broth splashed across the pristine white surface.

A long sigh drifted from the living room couch.

I grabbed a paper towel and wiped the mess.

Four more pots sat piled in the sink.

The remnants of the complex traditional meal he demanded took up every inch of the stovetop.

I scrubbed the grease from the burner.

My hands smelled like garlic and burnt oil.

I carried the last empty pan to the sink and turned around.

He leaned back on the cushions.

His thumbs rapidly tapped the controller.

Gunfire echoed from the television speakers.

I leaned against the doorframe.

Good luck with the cleanup.

The tapping stopped.

He paused the game.

He turned his head slowly.

His jaw tightened.

The silence in the room stretched out.

He set the controller on the coffee table.

This is your job.

I crossed my arms.

My fingernails dug into the sleeves of my sweater.

I glanced at the sink.

The stack of dirty metal teetered dangerously.

We made an agreement about the dishes.

He scoffed.

He stood up from the couch.

He walked toward the kitchen.

He stopped inches from my face.

He looked down at me.

His eyes narrowed.

I work.

I earned this house.

I earned everything in it.

It is not my fault you have a pointless degree.

It is not my fault you never finish anything in your life.

My throat closed.

I stepped back.

My hip bumped the counter.

He stepped closer.

You do the cooking.

You do the cleaning.

You are a housewife.

That is your only purpose.

I gripped the edge of the granite until my knuckles turned white.

My gaze locked onto the intricate pattern of the stone surface, tracing the veins of gray minerals.

A tiny speck of dried sauce near the edge demanded my entire, absolute focus.

Looking upward meant acknowledging the frigid reality of his stare, so I kept my chin anchored to my chest.

You promised you would help me.

He laughed.

It was a dry, hollow sound.

He brought his arms across his torso.

He leaned forward slightly.

He invaded my space.

I help when I decide to help.

I am not your employee.

You are mine.

Shut your mouth and do your job.

I shoved past him.

I walked toward the hallway.

He followed me.

His heavy footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor.

He did not raise his voice.

He spoke in a low, measured tone.

That made it worse.

You are hormonal.

You are acting crazy because of your period.

You are letting your emotions dictate your behavior again.

You always do this.

I turned around.

I stared at him.

My chest heaved.

My vision blurred for a fraction of a second.

I forced my eyes to stay dry.

You lied to me.

You promised this would be a partnership.

You promised we would build a life together.

He pointed a finger at my face.

His nail hovered an inch from my nose.

Any woman would beg to be in your position.

Any woman would be thrilled to be my wife.

You have no idea how good you have it.

You are dead weight.

You are completely useless.

I stood frozen.

The air in the hallway felt thick.

He dropped his hand.

He turned his back to me.

He walked into the living room.

He picked up the controller.

The gunfire resumed on the television.

Retreating into the bedroom, I shut the heavy wooden door behind me.

The brass lock clicked into place with a definitive, satisfying snap.

I sat on the edge of the mattress.

The digital clock on the nightstand blinked.

Three hours passed.

I stared at the wall.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was a message from him.

Make sure my shirts are ironed for my office day tomorrow.

I looked at the message.

I read it three times.

I looked at the empty suitcase in the closet.

I stood up from the bed.

I walked toward the closet.

I pulled the suitcase out.

I unzipped it.

Moving purposefully to my dresser, I yanked open the top drawer.

I grabbed my favorite sweaters, folded them tightly, and pressed them into the bottom of the suitcase.

The next drawer yielded my everyday jeans and a handful of plain t-shirts, which I packed with the same cold efficiency.

Sweeping my toiletries from the bathroom counter into a travel bag, I threw them into the side pocket.

I zipped the suitcase closed and dragged it quietly out of the bedroom.

Instead of heading straight for the front door, I detoured into the kitchen.

I gathered the greasy, unwashed pots from the sink, carrying them carefully to the living room.

He was so entirely engrossed in his game that he did not notice me approaching.

I stacked the dirty metal pots directly on top of his precious, pristine gaming console.

The wheels of my luggage then clicked sharply against the hardwood floor.

The television volume dropped immediately.

He paused the game again.

He walked into the hallway.

He looked at the suitcase.

He looked at my face.

His expression shifted from annoyance to confusion.

He took a step toward me.

Where are you going?

I gripped the handle of the luggage.

I did not blink.

I looked him straight in the eyes.

I walked past him toward the front door.

He reached out.

He grabbed my arm.

His grip was tight.

His fingers dug into my skin.

You are not leaving.

I pulled my arm away.

I reached for the doorknob.

Watch me.