“I’m
serious. Mom wants the house. She said you’d throw a fit, so I told her I’d handle you.”
Handle me.
Like I was a temper to be managed, not his wife of six years.
“That’s our house, Jarrod. You can’t just give it away.”
“I already promised them.”
For six years we’d paid the mortgage on our three-bedroom home, and he’d decided — alone, in some phone call with his mother — to hand it over and move us into his parents’ cramped two-bedroom apartment.
“You made this decision without me,” I said.
“Mom was right. You always make everything difficult.”
His mother, Sharon, had despised me from the day we met.
“You’re not nearly enough of a homemaker to deserve a house like this,” she’d told me once, over Thanksgiving, with a smile.
And every time, Jarrod said the same four words: “Don’t make a scene.”
