I came home exhausted, barely able to drag my feet up the driveway, but the sound of laughter from the garage stopped me cold. It hit me like a slap. Carefree. Loud. Like there wasn’t a single worry in the world.
My fingers clenched around my keys as I stood frozen at the doorway. I already knew what I’d find. My husband, Mark, and his best friend, Greg—the leech who never left.
Sure enough, when I pushed open the garage door, there they were. Greasy hands, sweat-streaked faces, bent over that same damn car they’d been “fixing” for weeks. Beer bottles sat on the workbench, sweating just like them, and the smell of oil mixed with the stale stench of laziness.
Mark didn’t even look up right away. “Hey, babe. How was work?”
My hands curled into fists. “You’re seriously asking me that?”
Greg leaned against the car, that same smug grin stretching across his face. “Takes time to do it right,” he said, lifting his beer like he was making a toast.
My voice sharpened. “Yeah? Maybe Mark should try spending some time looking for a job instead.”
That got Mark’s attention. He straightened up, wiping his hands on a rag, like that somehow made him look like he actually did something. “I’m trying, okay? It’s not that easy.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “No, I guess spending every afternoon in the garage drinking with Greg is easier, huh?”
Greg chuckled, taking another swig from his beer. Then, with a shrug, he said, “Hey, maybe you could just work two jobs till he finds something. You’re already good at carrying the load.”
Something inside me snapped. I turned to Mark, waiting—begging—for him to tell Greg to shut up. To stand up for me. To be a man.
Instead, he shrugged. “It’s not a bad idea.”
I stared at him, waiting for him to take it back. To laugh and say Greg was being an idiot. But he didn’t.
“Fine,” I said, my voice as cold as steel. “I’ll get another job.”
And I did.
One week later, exhaustion was a permanent resident in my bones. My body ached from head to toe. The auto wash job drained me—hot water, harsh chemicals, endless scrubbing until my fingers were raw and my back screamed for relief. Even my days off weren’t mine anymore.
I pushed the front door open, hoping, just maybe, that Mark had at least picked up a plate or wiped down the counter.
I should’ve known better.
The sink overflowed with dishes, cloudy water sitting at the bottom, a few forks and knives sticking out like abandoned weapons. The couch was buried under piles of laundry—wrinkled shirts, mismatched socks, jeans crumpled like they’d been tossed and forgotten. Dust coated the surfaces like a thick layer of neglect.
And there, standing in the middle of it all, was Mark. Arms crossed. Face twisted into a frown.
“No dinner?”
I blinked. I actually had to take a second just to make sure I heard him right.
Then I laughed. Sharp. Cold. A bitter sound that echoed in the mess of the house. “You think I have time to work two jobs and keep this place spotless?”
He exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate, like I was the one being unreasonable. “That’s a woman’s job.”
Something inside me burned so hot I thought I’d explode. My fingers twitched. Not a fist. Not yet. But close.
I let my bag slip off my shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
“Then do it,” I said, my voice flat, empty. “Because I’m done.”
His frown deepened. “I have plans. Greg and I—”
“Of course you do.” I cut him off, shaking my head. “You always do.”
I stared at him, feeling something inside me shift. I wasn’t sure if it was anger, disappointment, or just sheer exhaustion.
“Promise me,” I said, my voice calmer now. “If you get a job offer, you’ll take it.”
He hesitated. Just a second. Barely even that. But I saw it.
His jaw tightened. “Fine. I promise.”
But I didn’t know if I believed him.
Two weeks later, I came home to find Mark standing in the middle of the living room, looking smug.
“They called me,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow, rubbing my temples. “Who?”
“The job,” he said, stepping closer. “They want me to come in tomorrow. Mechanic job.”
I should have felt relieved. Happy, even. But then he smirked.
“Greg and I are going in together. See? You doubted me.”
Something in me recoiled at those words.
I sat up, shaking my head. “Mark, I never doubted you. I just wanted you to stop doubting yourself.”
For a second, I thought I saw something flicker across his face—realization, maybe. But then he just smirked again, like he had won some argument I wasn’t even trying to have.
I sighed. “Well, I hope it works out.”
And then I leaned back, closed my eyes, and let the silence settle between us.
The evening air smelled of car wax, gasoline, and burnt rubber. The fluorescent lights of the garage buzzed overhead, casting a cold glow over the pavement.
I stepped outside, scanning the group of new hires.
Then I saw them.
Mark. And Greg.
Mark’s face went pale the second our eyes met, like he had just walked into a trap he never saw coming. Greg, slower to catch on, frowned before realization hit him like a brick.
“You’re the new boss?” Mark’s voice barely made it past his throat.
I crossed my arms. “Looks like it.”
Mark swallowed hard. Greg let out a low whistle. “Damn.”
Mark rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at me. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh. “I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I?”
I tilted my head. “You said it, not me.”
He let out a short, breathy laugh, but there was no humor in it. Just something tired. Defeated.
“I didn’t see it,” he muttered. “Everything you’ve done. How strong you were. How much I took you for granted.”
For the first time, I saw real regret in his eyes. But regret didn’t pay bills. Regret didn’t erase months—years—of carrying everything on my back while he laughed in the garage.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
The words landed softly, but I didn’t rush to respond. I let them sit there, stretching out between us.
I sighed, shaking my head, my voice steady. “Let’s see if you mean it.”
Then, without another word, I turned and walked back inside.
