“You never cook me a proper dinner.”
He was bullying her again.
“All the boys at work tell me they come home and their wife has dinner sitting on the table for them. I’m the only one who doesn’t have a dinner waiting when he gets home. What kind of a wife are you?”
“And do all those men stay out drinking in the pub all night? How am I supposed to cook a dinner when I never know what time you’ll be home?”
But he won the argument. When it was over she felt bruised, battered, guilty.
So the next day she decided to cook him a big roast dinner. Continue reading “Nothing Is Ever Simple With Family”