The Househusband Said Enough
I wasn't even thirty when the rheumatism hit.
Rainy days, the pain got so bad I'd foam at the mouth. When I asked Janet for money to buy meds, she brushed it off—said everyone aches when they get older and I should just tough it out.
Meanwhile, she was dropping two-thirds of her paycheck on imported meds—for Connor Sackett.
I only found out today.
It felt like a bad joke. I looked up and said, "Janet, let's get a divorce."
She froze, then laughed like I'd told the funniest joke she'd ever heard. "Harlan, do you even hear yourself? Divorce? You don't get to decide that. Fine. Don't cook, then. Go out, grab something, and bring it back."
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