‘The day I walked out on my 20-year marriage’
I am loading the debris of a family dinner into the dishwasher. I haven’t rinsed and am cramming them in haphazardly − bowls, plates, glasses − all piled on top of one another.
Clink, clank, crash. My husband is silent, but I can almost feel his irritation across the kitchen. When the machine is rammed like a crockery game of Buckaroo, I triumphantly slam the door shut and spin round with my chin tilted. Daring him to comment.
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