The Househusband Said Enough

For over thirty years, my wife Janet faked being broke—for her flimsy ex.

When our son Asher landed in the hospital, I begged and borrowed from everyone I knew. Still came up fifty bucks short.

Janet? Said she was tapped out.

So my mom sold off her own meds to cover the bill—never told me.

She died without treatment.

I handled my mom's funeral alone. When I went to pick up Asher from the hospital, I found a stash of Janet's old shopping receipts.

Custom suits. Million-dollar watches. A damn private jet.

I grabbed them and stormed off to confront her.

Asher cut me off. "Dad, Mr. Sackett's sick. Mom's just helping him out. Why are you freaking out?"

I stared at the kid who only lived because my mom died. It felt like something cracked inside me.

Janet barely looked up. "Connor's educated. He deserves the finer things. Unlike you—crying over fifty bucks like some househusband. See? I didn't give you the money, and Asher's fine."

Fine.

If that's how they see it, I'm done with this family.

I tossed the receipts on the floor and walked out alone.

Janet chased after me, shoved a shopping bag into my hands.

"Asher's just gotten better. Make something nice. I already gave you this month's grocery money, so don't come begging."

She smiled like always—like none of it mattered. Like my pain was just part of the deal.

Thirty-five years ago, her paycheck wasn't much, but she handed me a hundred bucks for groceries.

Now? She's pulling in over four figures a month.

Still gives me the same hundred.

She always said research was pricey. That the kids' education cost a ton.

Never once mentioned she had that kind of money—or that it was all going to some other guy.

I stared at the shopping bag and gave a dry laugh. "Not in the mood to cook. You can eat on your own."

Janet's face dropped fast. "Harlan, seriously? Still whining about the money? Whatever. Skip the shopping—just go make us some chicken. We'll deal."

That was Janet. Thirty-five years of marriage, and she always talked like she was above me without even noticing.

But back when we tied the knot, she'd said, "Harlan, if you're willing, we'll work hard together and live our best life."

Best life, huh?

Was that me blowing all my savings on her books and vitamins?

Or standing on a stool all night, holding a basin to catch rain so she could study without getting wet?

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."

She pulled a crumpled five from her pocket and shoved it at me. "Didn't you use to like those muffins from that bakery? Get yourself one. And grab some buns—Asher wants some."