“I’m here to serve you legal documents,” the man replied, handing over the folder.
Jason opened it, his eyes scanning quickly before snapping toward me.
Before he could react, the cleaning manager stepped forward with a clipboard.
“This is our invoice for the deep cleaning,” she said evenly. “Payment has already been made. Your wife paid it herself.”
Then Maria raised a second folder.
“And here’s the catering receipt,” she said clearly. “Your wife covered the full cost, since she was medically unable to cook with her arm in a cast.”
Medically unable.
The words echoed through the room.
Heads turned—from Jason, to me, then back again.
Linda’s face drained of color.
“You can’t do this!” he yelled. “Not today. Not on my birthday!”
I stood up slowly.
“This was the only way you were ever going to hear me,” I said.
“You’re embarrassing me in front of everyone!” he shouted. “We could’ve talked this through!”
I let out a short, humorless laugh.
“I tried,” I said. “I talked about the chores. About carrying everything alone. About how you treat me. You rolled your eyes. You called me dramatic. Lazy.”
I lifted my cast slightly.
“I begged you to shovel. You didn’t. I slipped. I broke my arm. And when I came back from the ER, you told me it was my duty—and worried about how it would make you look.”
“So let’s be clear,” I said calmly. “I didn’t ruin your birthday. You did.”
One of his coworkers stared at him like he was seeing him for the first time.
I turned to Linda.
“And you,” I said. “You told me I should still cook with a broken arm. You warned me men ‘look elsewhere’ if women don’t try hard enough. If that’s your idea of marriage, you’re welcome to keep him.”
Her mouth opened. No words came out.
I walked down the hall to the bedroom.
My bag was already packed—I’d done it earlier while Jason was in the shower.
I returned with it slung over my left shoulder.
Jason stared at me. “Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving,” I said. “I’m staying with a friend. My lawyer will handle the rest.”
“You can’t just leave—we have guests!” he sputtered.
“No,” I corrected him. “You have guests. I paid for the food and the spotless house. You’re welcome.”
His father muttered something about “working it out,” and I shook my head.
“You raised a man who treats his wife like staff,” I said. “I’m done.”
I headed for the door.
“Don’t do this,” Jason called after me, his voice cracking. “We can fix this. I’ll help more. I’ll shovel next time, okay? Just… not like this.”
I didn’t turn around.
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