I came home exhausted, my body aching like I’d carried the weight of the world. All I wanted was silence, food, and maybe five minutes to breathe. But the second I stepped inside, laughter from the garage cut through me like a slap. Mark and Greg—again—hands greasy, beers open, still “fixing” that damn car.

I stared, arms crossed, as Mark barely looked up. “Hey, babe. How was work?” he asked. I didn’t answer. I just asked why the car was still in pieces. Greg smirked, tossed out a joke about me working two jobs. Then Mark shrugged—shrugged—and said, “It’s not a bad idea.” Something inside me snapped.

One week later, I had a second job, and our house was falling apart. I came home to laundry on the couch, dishes in the sink—and Mark asking, “No dinner?” I laughed. Cold. Tired. Done. “Then do it,” I said, and dropped my bag. He had “plans with Greg.” Of course he did.

Then one night, he walked in differently. “They called,” he said. “Mechanic job. Greg and I start tomorrow.” He was proud—like I owed him something. But I didn’t cheer. I didn’t thank him. Because days later, when he showed up at orientation, he realized I was his new boss. And I let the silence answer every sorry he never said.