My Wife Regrets Marrying Me Out of Spite

"If Andrew hadn't been so persistent back then, I never would have married him," Tiffany Kramer spat. "So what if we've been married for seven years? I still don't love him."

Those were the only two sentences I caught from around the corner of the stairwell. I didn't listen to the rest. I didn't want to, either.

The cigarette burned down to my fingertips before I finally let it fall. The scene at the dinner table kept replaying in my mind.

I stood outside for 20 minutes, letting the cold night air wash over me. After standing there for what felt like an eternity, I finally made my way back upstairs.

When I opened the door, the living room was quiet.

Our friends had all left.

Dirty plates and glasses littered the table. The leftovers and fruit platter sat untouched, while candy wrappers and crumpled tissues were scattered everywhere.

The bedroom door stood open, and Tiffany emerged.

"So you finally decided to come back," she said, frowning the moment she saw me. "We hardly ever get everyone together. Who did you think you were impressing by making a scene in front of everyone?"

I stayed silent.

"What are you standing there for?" she complained, giving me an impatient once-over. "Go wash the dishes."

I stared at her, momentarily taken aback. It was as if the humiliation at the dinner table and the words I'd overheard in the stairwell had nothing to do with her.

She was still ordering me around as usual.

If I hadn't heard what she said earlier, I might've actually done as she said. After all, that was how I'd spent all these years with her.

Trying to be the good husband she wanted, I'd given up every expensive hobby I had. I'd even passed up a promotion so I could move with her to Noxmere, far from home.

Little by little, I'd adjusted to the food and climate I'd never been used to.

But now, I couldn't bring myself to move.

Tiffany's expression darkened.

"Are you deaf? Tonight's already been stressful enough. Do I really have to repeat myself?"

After every gathering, I'd always been the one left to clean up. She'd sit around replying to messages or head to the bedroom to shower, while I'd clear the plates, wash the dishes, wipe down the table, and mop the floor.

I'd never minded. I used to think that was just how marriage worked. One person had to do a little more than the other sometimes.

But that day, staring at the greasy plates piled across the table, I suddenly felt like I couldn't breathe.

Eventually, I took a deep breath and walked over. I began stacking the plates one by one.

Tiffany's expression relaxed once she saw me finally move. She turned back toward the bedroom and didn't even bother to say another word, as though this was simply what I was supposed to do.

The sound of running water filled the kitchen as I washed the dishes, my thoughts drifting back over everything that had happened.

When I finished washing the last plate, I turned off the tap. The kitchen fell silent.

I dried my hands and stood in front of the bedroom door. Tiffany was propped up against the headboard, scrolling through her phone without even looking up.

"Are you done with the dishes?"

I looked at her.

"Do you regret marrying me?"