“Does he help with laundry, dishes, groceries?”
“Almost never,” I said. “He says that’s my job since I’m home all day.”
Diane’s expression grew harder with each answer, something I hadn’t expected from a woman who’d always been warm and easygoing at family gatherings.
She set down her coffee mug carefully, the way people do when they’re trying to keep their hands from shaking.
“I raised that boy better than this,” she finally said. “I don’t know where along the way he decided a job outside the house excused him from everything happening inside it.”
She grew quiet for a moment, looking down at her hands.
“His father used to say the same kinds of things,” she said. “That providing was enough, that everything else was my job because I was home. I let myself believe that for years, longer than I should have.”
“What changed?” I asked.
