My unemployed husband demanded that I pay for his mom’s trip to Hawaii—or I’d be the one leaving the house. My MIL just laughed and said, “You’ll have to pay.” So I threw the divorce papers at both of them and said, “Fine—let’s get a divorce.”
The evening Marcus informed me that I was expected to finance his mother’s vacation to Hawaii, he didn’t even bother to look up from the television. He remained slumped on the sofa in his sweatpants, a game controller gripped in his hands. There were no job-search tabs open on his laptop screen—only a paused video game and a half-empty energy drink.
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“Mom deserves an actual vacation,” he declared. “You’re going to be the one to book it. And make it first-class if you have any love for this family.”
I stood motionless in the doorway, still wearing my identification badge from the hospital billing office. My feet were throbbing from a long shift. My head was pounding. For the last eight months, I had been the sole provider, the only person bringing a consistent paycheck into that household.
