Housewarming Party: I Quit This Marriage

The red wine spread through the fish tank like a cloud of blood.

My wife, Nora Ford, shot to her feet. "John, are you out of your mind?"

The arowana thrashed wildly in the water.

Her assistant, Caleb Jackson, flinched and stumbled backward, nearly dropping the cat in his arms.

"John, please don't do this. Ms. Ford bought the arowana especially for the new home. It's supposed to liven up the place."

I snorted. "Liven up the place? My mom is in the kitchen scrubbing your dishes, while you trampled my dad's thing like it's worthless. You're talking to me about livening up the place?"

Nora's face darkened. "Your mom offered to help. We didn't force her."

Mom came out of the kitchen, water still dripping from her sleeves. "It's okay, John. Today is supposed to be a happy day."

As she spoke, she instinctively took half a step back. That was when I noticed what she was wearing on her feet—a pair of disposable plastic slippers.

The soles were so thin they were practically touching the floor, and the heel had already split open. The new slippers I had bought her were nowhere to be seen.

"Mom, where are your slippers?"

She avoided my gaze.

"My dad's feet are swollen, so I let him wear the wool slippers you bought for your mom," Caleb said softly.

I turned to look. Caleb's father, Leonard Jackson, was sitting on the couch with his legs crossed. On his feet were the slippers I had bought for Mom.

Before Nora and I moved, I had specifically bought two pairs of slippers—one for Dad, one for Mom. I told them this was their home, too, and from then on, they would have their own soft slippers to wear.

Yet now, Mom was standing in the apartment she had helped pay for, wearing disposable plastic slippers, looking like a housekeeper who could be dismissed at any moment.

Nora frowned at me. "It's just a pair of slippers. Do you have to go this far?"

I looked at her. "Exactly. So why didn't you let Mr. Jackson wear the disposable ones?"

She was stumped.

Caleb looked incredibly wronged. "John, I swear I didn't know they were for Mrs. Shepherd. I'll return them right now."

He bent down to take off the slippers, moving so slowly one would think he was the victim here.

Leonard immediately stopped him. "I won't wear them, then. We're not so poor that we can't afford our own slippers."

He glanced at Mom. "Some people just aren't meant for nice things."

Mom's face went white. Dad finally piped up, "What are you insinuating here?"

His back was bad, so his voice wasn't loud, but I saw his tight grip around the wooden rocking horse.

Nora's expression was grim. "Look, Mr. Shepherd. Mr. Jackson is getting on in years. He's just blunt. Don't take it personally."

For four years of marriage, she had still addressed Dad that way.

I walked over and took the wooden rocking horse from him. The shoeprint on its back was deep. To me, it was no different than a slap on Dad's face.

I grew up in a low-income household. As a kid, I wanted to ride one of those carousel horses at the mall. Dad couldn't afford it, so he carved one out of wood for me instead.

This time, when we moved, he carved a smaller version for my future kid. He had said he wanted to place it in the living room.

"I might not have much to offer as a grandfather, but what I can do is use these hands of mine to make the best things I can for my family."

Yet Nora merely glanced at it, impatient. "It doesn't really suit our living room style. Caleb spent ages working with a designer to put this place together. It just ruins the whole look."

Caleb jumped in. "Don't get me wrong, John. Ms. Ford just thinks the natural wood makes the place look dated."

I looked around the living room. Everything—from the couch, curtains, sideboard to decorations—was in the minimalist style Caleb liked.

They replaced the solid-wood cabinet I had picked out and changed my beige curtains to white. They also swapped out my painting on the wall with a framed quote.

"Home Is Where He Is."

I asked Nora what that was supposed to mean, and she told me the designer had picked it at random. Now, I realized it hadn't been random at all.

Someone had already been quietly writing himself into this home.