For nineteen years, I did all the housework while my husband barely lifted a finger. Then our teenage son started treating me the same way. But when they laughed at me for asking them to help and left for a boys' day out, I finally made a decision neither of them saw coming.
My husband, Eric, always said there were two kinds of men: those who ran their homes and those who let their wives run them. He considered himself the first kind.
For most of our marriage, I handled everything at home. I cooked, cleaned, paid bills, scheduled appointments, helped Nigel with his homework every evening, and made sure he had clean clothes for school. I'm forty-two, Eric is forty-five, and we've been married for nineteen years. Our son, Nigel, is fifteen.
Eric worked full-time. So did I. The difference was that my workday apparently never ended.
"Can you put the laundry away?" I'd ask.
"I've been working all day."
"Then we'll do it tomorrow."
Tomorrow was Eric's favorite day. It was also the day nothing ever happened.
For years, I convinced myself this arrangement was normal. My mother had done everything for my father, and I'd grown up believing marriage meant making sacrifices.
Then Nigel started getting older, and something began bothering me. One evening, I asked him to bring his dirty dishes into the kitchen.
"Dad says you're better at that stuff."
I stopped wiping the counter. But the following week, he refused to fold his laundry.
Eric was watching television.
"Don't drag me into this," he said, laughing.
I made Nigel clear his plate anyway. But the following week, he refused to fold his laundry.
"Dad doesn't fold clothes."
Eric called from the living room.
"Leave the boy alone. He'll have plenty of responsibilities when he's older."
I remember looking at Nigel and realizing he was learning exactly what Eric had spent years teaching him. And I was helping teach him, too. Every time I quietly cleaned up after them, I showed Nigel that their behavior had no consequences.
I'd started wondering how much longer I could live like that. But I still hoped something would change.
Until one Saturday morning. Our house was a disaster. The laundry baskets were overflowing. The refrigerator needed cleaning. Both bathrooms were filthy, and I'd been putting off mopping the kitchen floor. I'd worked overtime that Friday and barely slept.
At breakfast, I put down my coffee.
"Guys, I need help today."
Eric looked up from his phone.
"Cleaning. All three of us live here."
"Come on, honey. Cleaning is women's work."
I waited for him to smile. Nigel leaned back in his chair.
"Dad's right. A woman's place is in the kitchen. He never helps you, and I'm not going to either. That's humiliating."
I could feel my resentment and anger ready to burst.
"That's what you think of me?" I asked.
"Mom, don't make everything dramatic."
Eric stood and grabbed his keys.
"Come on, son. Let's have a boys' day."
I looked at the dishes covering the table.
"And who's cleaning this?"
Twenty minutes later, they were loading their fishing rods and a cooler into the car.
"You'll manage. You always do."
I watched them drive away. I didn't touch a single dish. Instead, I started making phone calls.
My friend, Denise, answered first.
"Please tell me you're free today," I said.
I'd been looking at apartments for weeks. Denise had been telling me for years that I needed to stop accepting Eric's behavior. After another argument with Eric, I'd toured a furnished one-bedroom near my workplace and submitted an application. On Friday, the landlord emailed to say I'd been approved. She could hold the apartment through the weekend, and the lease was ready to sign.
I'd spent most of the night wondering whether I had the courage.
I called the landlord, signed the lease electronically, and paid the deposit. By noon, I'd picked up the keys from the landlord.
Denise arrived with her husband and a borrowed van.
I packed my clothes, jewelry, documents, and the things I'd bought before marrying Eric. We loaded my grandmother's chair, my writing desk, several boxes of books, and the framed family photographs I'd always kept in the living room.
"You're serious," she said.
I'd photographed the shared furniture and important records before leaving. I wasn't trying to empty the house. I was taking myself out of it.
Later that afternoon, I called my sister.
"Could you help me with Nigel tomorrow?"
"Of course. What's happened?"
"I'm moving out. I'd like you to bring him to my apartment tomorrow afternoon, if he wants to come. I need to talk to him away from Eric."
She was quiet for a moment.
"Send me the address. I'll help however I can."
I left my house key on the kitchen counter, along with a note for Eric.
By six, Denise and her husband had taken the last load to my apartment. Only my suitcase remained.
Then I heard his car pull into the driveway.
Nigel opened the front door first. He took one look inside and froze. My chair was gone. So were the photographs, desk, and several boxes of books.
I came downstairs carrying my suitcase.
"Mom, have you lost your mind?!" he shouted.
"What the hell happened?"
"You're leaving because we went fishing?"
"I've rented an apartment."
He looked at the suitcase.
"I'm leaving because I've spent nineteen years being treated like your employee."
Eric arrived at that moment.
"You're seriously abandoning us?"
"I'm not abandoning you. You're my son, and I love you. You'll always have a place with me. I've asked your aunt to bring you over tomorrow, if you're willing."
"Go ahead. You'll be back in a week."
"I've opened a separate bank account and requested that my future paychecks go there. I've left enough in our joint account to cover my share of this month's bills, and I've contacted a divorce attorney about a consultation."
"Divorce over housework?"
"Over nineteen years of disrespect."
"Where am I supposed to live?"
"Here for now, sweetheart. I've made room for you at my apartment, too. Your father and I will work out a parenting schedule, and we'll make sure you have time with both of us."
"You're a big man. You should have no trouble managing."