Alive?
“We have six children, Cole. Do you think raising them is a coma?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” he said dismissively. “You don’t even look at yourself anymore. You used to care about your appearance. About how we looked as a couple.”
I just stared at him, speechless.
He kept going. “When was the last time you actually got dressed up? Or wore something that wasn’t covered in stains?”
My breath hitched in my throat. “So that’s the reason? You got bored? You found someone with a flatter stomach and better gym clothes, and suddenly the last sixteen years are just a mistake?”
“You let yourself go,” he repeated bluntly.
The words felt like a physical strike.
I blinked slowly, feeling the heat of anger rise. “Do you know what I actually let go of? I let go of sleep. I let go of privacy and hot meals and my own identity. I let myself go so you could focus on your promotions and sleep in late on weekends while I kept this house from falling apart and kept our children alive.”
He rolled his eyes. “You always do this.”
