Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 671(@200wpm)___ 537(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
“Billy,” I cry, slipping on a puddle of wine. I crash to the floor, my elbow catching the table on the way. “Shit,” I yelp, scrambling to sit myself up. Silence. A deafening silence. Looking up at my husband, my eyes wide, I watch as he starts to heave, coughing in between, his startled eyes darting. He looks as stunned as I feel, and I wait for him to apologize, to fall to his knees and help me up.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, he clenches his eyes closed for a few painful moments, turns slowly, and walks out of the kitchen, leaving me behind with nothing to do but stare at the door after he pulls it closed.
I blink, feeling . . . numb. Who was that man? Swallowing, unsure how to feel, how to react, what to do, I cast my eyes across the floor. I’m surrounded by lasagna and wine. Surrounded by anger. I stare at the mess for an age, like it might clean itself up. And then, out of the blue, like my emotions are struggling to keep up with the rollercoaster of shit being served, I feel my lip wobble. I fight it with all I have, yelling at myself in my head. I deserved his anger. I pushed too hard. “You stupid, stupid woman,” I croak, tears threatening as I assess through my blurry vision how far the splashes of pasta and wine have stretched and, also, sadly calculating how much of my time it will kill clearing it all up. Probably the rest of the evening. And then, out of nowhere, surprising me, something else creeps up on me.
Anger.
I try to push it back. I try so hard. But he just wiped away over twenty pounds of food and wine. Not to mention the crockery. I walked five miles to save a few quid, and he just threw it away. Like he just threw me away, without a care that I could be hurt. And that total disregard of me stings even more.
The anger only fuels my tears. Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I drag myself to my feet and fetch a cloth to get started, but a knock at the door sounds, stalling me. I momentarily consider ignoring it, but then I hear Billy’s mother calling through the letterbox. I wipe my cheeks of tears as I make my way to the door. Could this night get any worse? Of all the times to just pop in.
Her face is a picture when she lays her eyes on me. “What on earth, Lo?” She shakes her head in disappointment, pushing her way into the hallway. “How many times have I got to tell you? Billy doesn’t need to see you blubbering all over the place. Hasn’t the poor man got enough on his plate?” I watch her wander into the kitchen and look around. “What happened?”
I shut the front door, searching deep for the strength to deal with Linda. Isn’t it enough that I have a dying husband without his mother’s constant hostility and negativity?
She drops her worn old bag to the kitchen worktop and puts her hands on her hips. The jeans she has on are ill-fitted, the jumper I’m pretty sure is Billy’s father’s, and her hair is scraped back in a very unflattering ponytail. I’m mentally annihilating her, because I simply do not have the energy to speak up and tell her to fuck off.
“Well?” she presses.
I stare at her as she waits for me to answer. “I can’t be his emotional punch bag, Linda.” I turn, walking away from her.
“No, you’re his wife, and you will do what’s needed to be there for him.”
“I’ve tried, and I keep having it thrown back in my face. I can’t take it any longer. He’s given up. I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“You selfish little cow!”
Oh God. This woman.
I run up the stairs. I cannot stand there and take this right now. First my husband, then his horrible mother. No. I can’t be her emotional punch bag either. My heart is beating frantically by the time I slam my bedroom door and fall against it. You’re his wife and you will do what’s needed to be there for him. I’m trying. With everything I am, I’m bloody trying.
And nothing is good enough. Nothing works. I’m not being heard anymore, not even seen. And for the first time in two years, I ask . . . what about me? Because this fucking hurts.
I can’t.
I can’t do this.
I. Cannot. Do. This.
I pull my phone from my pocket and dial Luke. He answers on the second ring. “Lo?”
It’s only when I hear the concern in his voice that I suddenly wonder what the hell I’m supposed to say. So I just say his name, unable to hide the emotion in my voice. “Luke.”