Michael was attentive, funny, loving.
He’d cook dinner on Wednesdays, his specialty night, and we’d eat pasta on the back porch and talk about our days.
He was working in sales for a medical device company, and he was good at it.
Charming people was his superpower.
For the first year, it was close to perfect.
Close enough that I ignored the cracks.
The cracks were small at first.
Karen calling every single day, sometimes twice.
Michael taking the calls even during dinner, even during movies, even once during a moment of intimacy that I will never, ever discuss in detail.
He’d mouth “sorry” at me and step out of the room. And I’d hear him saying, “Yes, Mom. Of course, Mom. I’ll tell her.”
The “tell her” was always a suggestion.
A suggestion about how I should arrange the living room.
A suggestion about what dish to bring to Thanksgiving.
A suggestion that maybe I should cut back my hours at work since Michael makes enough for both of you.
I didn’t cut back my hours.
I loved my job.
I was good at it.
I’d just been promoted to senior analyst and my boss, a no-nonsense woman named Patricia, told me I was on track for a management position within two years.
But the suggestions kept coming, and Michael kept relaying them.
And slowly, so slowly I didn’t notice it happening, the suggestions turned into expectations.
By our second Thanksgiving as a married couple, I was cooking for Michael’s entire family.
Not because anyone asked me directly.
It just happened.
Karen mentioned that she was so tired this year, and wouldn’t it be lovely to have Thanksgiving at our house?
Michael said it would mean a lot to him.
Jennifer said she’d bring a side dish.
She brought store-bought rolls.
And suddenly, I was brining a 22-pound turkey at 11 at night while Michael watched football in the other room.
I served 12 people that Thanksgiving.
I cooked for two days straight.
When it was over, Karen looked at the table and said, “The gravy is a little thin, but otherwise, not bad for your first real hosting.”
I smiled.
I said, “Thank you.”
That night, after everyone left, I stood in the kitchen surrounded by dishes, and cried for 10 minutes.
Then I washed every single plate, dried them, put them away, and went to bed.
Michael was already asleep.
That was the pattern.
That became our life.
Every holiday, every birthday, every family gathering, it happened at our house, and I did all the work.
Michael helped sometimes, but his help looked like carrying a chair from one room to another and then disappearing.
Karen directed.
Jennifer criticized.
Doug ate silently.
Brandon would try to help with dishes, and Karen would shoo him away, saying, “Let Ashley handle it. That’s her domain.”
Her domain.
Like I was the hired help.
But here’s what I need you to understand.
I wasn’t miserable every day.
