I turned on the TV and cast my phone screen.
Gasps filled the room.
The Instagram post appeared first.
Then I clicked through photos I’d taken the day I came home:
- Plates that looked like petri dish experiments.
- Trash overflowing.
- The bathroom that made people wince.
“This is what I came home to after being discharged from the hospital,” I said.
Sam crossed his arms. “So you’re blaming me for your mess.”
I shook my head.
“While I was recovering from delivering triplets, Sam did nothing to maintain our home.”
“And then he publicly blamed me.”
I looked around the room.
“I don’t think Sam has the basic life skills to take care of himself.”
Sam snapped, “I know how to clean!”
I nodded sympathetically, like this was an intervention.
“Then prove it,” I said gently.
“When was the last time you cooked a meal?”
“Did laundry?”
“Vacuumed?”
“Did dishes?”
He frowned and didn’t answer.
And that silence told everyone everything.
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