“Yes,” I said, still packing. “That.”
He was relentless. He told me to stop packing. When I didn’t respond, he finally collapsed. “Why? Why are you leaving?”
“How can you possibly not know? Why would you think I would be happy with you? Do you not see me crying? Do you not understand that our fights are hard on me? Do you not see that I’m no longer the woman you married? What do you do to make me happy in this marriage? You’re dismissive. You give me the silent treatment when you’re mad. You don’t care how I’m doing or what I’m thinking. I’m here. Like a servant. You don’t do your share of chores around the house. You don’t cook. You don’t clean. I walk in the door from work, and you ask me where dinner is. You criticize me. You blame me because you flunked your tax tests. You play video games all the time. You do nothing to make my life easier, though I’m constantly doing things for you, and nothing I do is enough. I’m sick of it. I’m exhausted. I can’t do this anymore.”
His mouth opened and shut, opened and shut. His shoulders sank. His anger dissipated. “You are enough. You’re more than enough. I do care how you’re doing. It’s not your fault I didn’t pass the tests. I should have studied more… Look, Bellini, I didn’t know you needed help around the house!”
“What?” I was baffled.
“My mom always did all the housework, and she worked at the tire company full time.” He said this with a tone like,my mother does this, why can’t you? What’s your problem?
“I am not your mother. That is one of our biggest problems. You want to be married to your mother. Don’t make that face. You think it’s gross? It is. I don’t want a husband who wants to be married to a mother figure. I am your wife. Let me ask you a question, Martin. When you were living at home and your mom and dad both got home from work, your dad would sit down and watch TV, and she would make dinner, clean up after dinner, then spend her weekends doing housework, right? Was that fair to her? Do you think she was happy with that arrangement? Why didn’t your dad help?”
He was still stunned, then stuttered out, “My…my dad mowed the lawn and changed…he changed the oil in the cars.”
“That’s nothing, Martin. The lawn is a once-a-week chore—and not even during the rainy months. The oil is sporadic. Your mom did way more work than your dad. Do you not see that? Do you not see the unfairness in their relationship? I don’t want to be your mom.” I pulled my suitcases off the bed.
He blocked my way. I tried to go around him. He blocked me again, begging, then crying.
It was a horrible night. I gave in because I didn’t have the strength to fight. I stayed. In the morning, I went to work. I waited until I knew he would be at work, then I went home to get my suitcases. He had unpacked everything. I packed everything back up. I left.
And that’s when I made yet another mistake. I moved into an apartment. I got a month-to-month lease. Martin began calling and pleading for forgiveness, promising he would change, and after several months, I relented. There was part of me that still loved the boisterous, full-of-life man I dated in college, and I told Martin that I needed to be married to the man I knew before.He promised he would do better, be better. I moved back in. He changed. He started helping with the housework. He was considerate and funny. We went to the beach. Our marriage was better. Healthier.
Months later, he flunked his tax tests again.
We went to dinner that weekend, and Martin was in a foul, angry mood.
I said, “What’s wrong?”
And he said, “Nothin’.”
But I found out anyhow.
On a rainy Saturday, he said, “We’re moving back home.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Bellini—” He saw the expression on my face at his sharp voice and stopped. Gentling his voice, he said, “I need to move back home because my dad needs help with the tire shop. He had a heart attack, as you know.”
Yes, I knew that. “No. I’m not moving to Grant’s Station.”
We argued. Martin told me it would be only until his dad was better. He cried about his father, with whom he was very close. I felt sorry for Martin. He was not going to be a CPA. He was not going to pass the tests. They were hard tests, but Martin didn’t have the dedication or the work ethic or the intelligence to pass. He could be successful at his family’s tire shop, and he knew it.
I continued my graphic design work online, and we moved to the small, dusty town in Eastern Oregon that he and all his male relatives and most of his female relatives had grown up in. He knew everyone, they knew him. I was an outsider. We moved into a house that his great-uncle, who had died three years ago, used to live in on the family compound.
“This is the ugliest house I’ve ever seen,” I told Martin as we got out of our cars. It was out in the country. The porch was slouching. That was the word for it—slouching.
“Look, Bellini, the house is free. It’s not perfect, but we can fix it up.”
“The roof is sagging.”
“We’ll get it fixed.”
“The front porch steps are hanging off.”
“I’ll fix them.”
“The windows are lopsided.”
