I was six months pregnant when my marriage finally showed me what it really was.
It started with fries.
That fateful day, Albert, my husband, had decided he wanted homemade fries with his steak. But he left the stove splattered and somehow managed to drip grease all across the kitchen floor without noticing or caring.
My marriage finally showed me what it really was.
I saw the mess while carrying laundry down the hallway.
“Albert, can you clean this up before someone slips?” I asked.