“So am I.”
He laughed.
Actually laughed.
“No, Amanda,” he said, as if explaining something obvious to a child. “You’re the wife. That means you hold this house together.
My mother needs help, Melanie needs support, and frankly, someone needs to be here since your little promotion is clearly making you forget what matters.”
My little promotion.
This wasn’t really about his mother or sister. It wasn’t even about the house. It was about the fact that I had just stepped into something bigger than him, and Derek—who had spent the last four years bouncing between half-finished business ideas and blaming “bad timing” for every failure—couldn’t stand it.
He stood, grabbed his truck keys, and said, “I’m picking them up at ten tomorrow.
Make sure the guest rooms are ready. And don’t start a fight when they get here.”
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t cry.
I just smiled.
“Okay,” I said.
The next morning, Derek drove off to pick up Gloria and Melanie, confident that when he returned, I would be exactly where he left me: compliant, practical, useful.
But when his truck pulled into the driveway three hours later, he stepped out laughing at something his mother had said—until he saw the front porch.
The locks had been changed.
