I was completely taken aback when I came through the door, the sound of my luggage wheels reverberating off the walls of the corridor. Our living room appeared to have been hit by a tornado. Dishes were heaped in the sink, toys were scattered all over the floor, and what? A banana on the couch that has turned black? My heart fell. After a long week of meetings throughout the state, this was the last thing I needed. All I wanted was to return home to my bed, my spouse, and my kids. to return home to a tidy place.

As I had arranged the children’s clothes according to the day, Brandon only needed to sort the cereal and get them dressed in the morning. Before I departed, the laundry had also been finished. Everything was in place for my husband to take over without any problems. However, I was simply disappointed when I returned home, yearning for the comforts of the place I had been away from for a week. It was worse when you walked into the kitchen. The fridge was almost empty save for a pack of beer and bottles of sauce, and the sink was overflowing with old mugs.

His remarks felt like a slap in the face, so I remained silent in response to his greeting. He continued carelessly, “Jo, you didn’t prepare enough food for the week.” “For the last two evenings, I’ve had to feed the kids pizza. We’ve run out of milk, too. And I’ve had to stop worrying about the house and concentrate on my work. That was the last straw.

The weariness and annoyance of feeling overworked and underappreciated for months—no, years—boiled over. “Not enough food?” Despite how I felt on the inside, I inquired in a remarkably composed voice. I felt like screaming. I didn’t hold off until I heard back. I didn’t even venture outdoors to visit my children, Max and Ava. I picked up my still-packed luggage and turned to go. “Brandon, I’m going out, and I won’t return until this house is exactly how I left it. tidy, well-stocked refrigerator, laundry sorted, and clean. Alright? As I left through the front door, Brandon gave me a perplexed and then worried look, but he remained silent. He made no attempt to stop me. He didn’t return my call or offer to take care of the house while I was having a bubble bath. He gave me permission to go.

I immediately drove to my parents’ house, which, even though I had outgrown it, still felt like a haven. Before I could even knock, my mother answered the door when I got there, her face changing from astonished to worried when she saw my tear-streaked face and the luggage following me. “What on earth happened, Jo?” Pulling me into a tight grip, she asked. The fragrance of pot roast filled the air as I entered the house where I grew up. It was a house. I wanted to enter this space. Not the disorder my husband had let to spread across the house. I strolled into the living room I knew well, and my dad came into the hallway.