I came home bone-tired, my body heavy from a long shift. All I wanted was quiet, food, maybe a moment to breathe. But laughter echoed from the garage—Mark and Greg again, beers in hand, still pretending to fix that car. Their fun felt like a slap to my exhaustion.

Mark barely glanced up. “Hey, babe. How was work?” I didn’t bother answering—just asked about the car. Greg joked about me working two jobs. Then Mark, with a careless shrug, said, “Could be a good idea.” And just like that, something in me cracked open.

A week later, I had a second job. The house? A disaster zone. Laundry piled high, dishes rotting in the sink—and Mark asking why dinner wasn’t made. I laughed—dry, hollow. “Then make it yourself,” I said, dropping my bag. He had “plans with Greg,” of course.

Then one night, he came in with a smirk. “Mechanic shop hired us,” he said proudly. But I didn’t clap. Didn’t smile. Because when he showed up to orientation two days later, he found me at the front of the room. And I let the silence speak all the words he never did.