Three years into marriage with Ryan, I thought we were chasing the same dream. He’d hole up in his office, claiming he was the busiest guy alive, plotting our big break. I fell for it, hauling the load—two kids, house chaos, a side hustle—keeping his “grind” sacred. Bills lagged, my nerves frayed, but he swore he was “this close” to striking gold, glued to his desk for “meetings” and “data.” I tiptoed around, shushing the kids, syncing chores to his schedule, trusting his hustle would pay off.
That crashed yesterday. It was a slog of a Wednesday—kids home, wired up. Sam tore around with our dog barking like crazy, while Ella twirled in the living room. I wiped counters, hissing, “Hush—Daddy’s busy!” Sam pouted, “But Max needs fun!” I was too beat to push back. Ryan had grumbled at breakfast, “Major call today—no interruptions!” I’d agreed, swallowing the usual ache. Scrubbing away, I wondered when we’d last had a real chat—something beyond survival mode. Then chaos struck—a skillet slipped, clattering loud, sparking Ella’s squeal and Sam’s laugh.
Ryan exploded from his office, red-faced, “Can’t you control this for one minute? I’m dying in a meeting here!” I steadied myself, “Ryan, I—” He snapped, “I’m slaving away, and you’re a mess!” The kids went still, Sam hugging Max tight. I almost said sorry, but a girly giggle leaked from his room. My gut twisted. “Who’s there?” I asked, slow and pointed. He flinched, “A colleague—leave it.” Nope—I barged in. His screen blared a silly game, a chat window flashing “BUBBLYBETTY77,” a cartoon figure chuckling. “What’s this?” I said, firm.
He bristled, “My break—you’re a bore! Betty’s cool, not like you.” It stung deep. “A break?” I shot back. “I’m killing myself out here, and you’re gaming with her?” He growled, “She cares—you nag.” I shooed the kids off, fury rising. “I’ve carried us all, and this is your ‘work’?” I cried. He scoffed, “You’re no fun—I’m done, Betty’s it!” He packed a bag and stormed out. Next day, I flipped between hurt and odd peace—kids kept asking, “Daddy back soon?” I’d sigh, “Not sure.”
His mom rang, frantic, “Ryan met Betty—she’s a scruffy dude who conned him for ticket money. He’s begging to return.” I cracked up, laughter bursting free. “No real job—just scraps from games, some sent to ‘Betty,’” she said. “He’s out—I’m free,” I told her. He called, pleading—I said, “Divorce, keep your tech.” I took everything else—house, kids, fresh start. Now, I work full-time, kids are in care, and I’m lighter. Tucking Sam in, he asked, “We good, Mom?” I smiled, “Oh, we’re great.” Ryan’s mess—he owns it, not me.
