I didn’t argue.
I simply walked into the bedroom.
And that night, I made a decision.
I wasn’t going to clean.
Not because I wanted revenge.
Not because I wanted to punish him.
I simply wanted to see what would happen if I stopped carrying something that had never been mine to carry alone.
The first day, Ryan barely noticed.
He came home, dropped his shoes beside the door, and sat on the couch.
I said nothing.
The second day, he noticed the dishes.
He opened the refrigerator, looked around, and frowned.
“There’s nothing clean.”
I looked at him.
“There are dishes in the sink.”
He stared at me.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
He walked away.
The third day, he began making faces whenever he entered the kitchen.
By the fourth day, the house looked exactly like the house he had been contributing to for years.
Only now, I wasn’t hiding it.
Ryan walked around stepping over his own socks.
He complained about the smell.
He complained about the laundry.
He complained about the dishes.
And every time, I answered calmly.
“You can clean it.”
Then came the fifth night.
He finally exploded.
“Megan, this isn’t funny anymore!”
I turned around.
