Whenever I asked Mark to go downstairs, I’d add as an afterthought, “Don’t forget to take the trash out.” He always nodded. And he always forgot. Then I noticed something. Whenever he went downstairs, the trash bag outside our neighbor Daisy’s door would be gone the next morning. One time, I didn’t remind him at all. Sure enough, our trash bag was still sitting by our door, while the space in front of her apartment was spotless. I stood there for a few seconds, the faint, sour smell of last night’s garbage hanging in the air. Without a word, I picked up our trash and took it down myself. From that day on, I stopped reminding him of anything. I no longer asked what time he’d be home. I no longer entrusted him with any “while you’re at it” tasks. Until one night, he suddenly asked me, “Have you been a little cold to me lately?” I glanced at the empty trash bin by the door, thought for a moment, and shook my head. “Not at all.” It was only later that I realized some people don’t forget what they’re supposed to do. They’ve already chosen who is worth remembering. And it was time I learned to remove him from my list of necessities. … It was 2 a.m. when Mark came home. I was still awake, sitting on the living room floor, sorting through years of household receipts. I didn’t look up when the door opened. A faint scent of perfume, mingled with smoke and alcohol, drifted in. “Hey, Ellie. Still up?” Mark’s voice was laced with a guilty, eager-to-please tone. He was holding an elegant insulated container, and he crouched down in front of me. “I passed by Ocean’s Crest on the way home and stood in line to get you their seafood chowder. It’s still hot.” He kicked off his shoes, his expression expectant, as if waiting for praise. I was sitting on the sofa, reading a book. I glanced up, my eyes landing on the container. The seafood chowder from Ocean’s Crest was famous for being packed with fresh ingredients—rich, succulent pieces of lobster and crab. But because it was so rich, the potent, sweet-and-briny smell seeped out even through the sealed lid. My stomach churned. I felt my brow furrow almost imperceptibly. “Thanks. Just leave it there,” I said flatly. My indifference seemed to annoy him. He placed the chowder on the coffee table and reached out to put a hand on my shoulder, but I leaned forward, pretending to turn a page, and his hand met empty air. It hovered there for an awkward moment before he retracted it, clearing his throat and starting to unbutton his shirt. “Oh, by the way, I need this shirt for a meeting tomorrow. It’s a bit wrinkled. Can you iron it for me? Remember to hand-wash it first. The fabric is delicate, it can’t go in the machine.” His tone was so matter-of-fact, as if I were his highly paid housekeeper. I glanced at the shirt. It was a gift from me for our wedding anniversary—a custom-tailored Italian silk blend. It was, indeed, delicate. In the past, I had always hand-washed each of his fine shirts in cold water, using a steamer to gently smooth out every crease, terrified of scorching a single thread. I looked at him and found the situation almost funny. “Mark,” I said, gesturing to the chowder. “Did you forget I’m severely allergic to shellfish?” He froze, his hands stilled on his tie. A look of shock flashed across his face, quickly followed by embarrassment and guilt. “Oh. Right… are you? I thought you used to like fish…” “That was freshwater fish,” I said, putting down the receipts. “The last time I accidentally ate shellfish, I was in the emergency room for two days. You were the one who filled out the hospital admission forms.” That was only last year. At the time, he’d been playing on his phone, complaining about how hard the hospital chairs were and how careless I’d been to get sick and make him take time off work to be there. It was clear now just how little he’d been paying attention. Mark’s face flushed red, his eyes darting away. “Well… I must have gotten it mixed up. I was just trying to do something nice for you, get you something nourishing. My mistake. I’ll get you something else next time.” He reached for the chowder, but I was already on my feet. I picked up the expensive container, walked it to the kitchen, and dropped the entire thing, box and all, directly into the trash can. It landed with a dull thud. Mark’s expression soured instantly. “Eleanor, what the hell? That was a hundred-dollar chowder! I haven’t eaten either!” “I don’t keep allergens in my house. It’s bad luck.” I turned on the faucet and began washing my hands, my voice as calm as if I were commenting on the weather. He was speechless. He took a deep breath, visibly trying to control his anger. He pointed a finger at the shirt. “Fine. The chowder was my fault. But at least get my shirt ready. I’m starving. I’m going to make some noodles.” He turned and strode into the kitchen, expertly opening cabinets to find a package of ramen. I dried my hands, picked up the silk shirt, and walked into the laundry room. Instead of filling a basin with cool water, I opened the washing machine, balled up the shirt, and tossed it inside. I poured in regular detergent, selected the “Heavy Duty” cycle, and pressed start. As the drum began to roar and tumble, I knew that delicate, expensive shirt was ruined. Mark came out with his bowl of noodles just in time to hear the spin cycle kick in. He paused, then rushed into the laundry room. His eyes practically bulged out of his head when he saw the machine churning at high speed. “Eleanor! Are you insane? That’s a three-hundred-dollar shirt! I told you it had to be hand-washed!” He fumbled with the buttons, stopping the cycle. He pulled out the shirt—now a wrinkled, misshapen rag—and his face twisted in a pained grimace. I leaned against the doorframe, watching his tantrum with a profound sense of calm. “I used to hand-wash it because I loved you, because I thought you were worth the effort.” I met his furious gaze, a wry smile touching my lips. “Now? The machine works just fine. It’s going to get wrinkled when you wear it anyway. Why waste the time?” Mark stared at me in disbelief, as if he were seeing me for the first time. “You were never like this. Eleanor, what is wrong with you lately? Is this all because I took out Daisy’s trash a few times? You’re going to act like this over that?” Oh. So he knew. He knew exactly what was bothering me, yet he chose to play dumb, to twist it around and accuse me of being hysterical. I looked at the soggy scrap of fabric in his hands and said softly, “Mark, you can always buy a new shirt. But some things, once they’re broken, can never be fixed.” After the seafood chowder incident, Mark gave me the silent treatment for two days. His social media, however, was anything but silent. He’d blocked me, but had forgotten about my alt account. Yesterday, there was a picture of him in the hallway, fixing a shoe cabinet. The caption read: A good neighbor is better than a distant relative. Always happy to help. In the corner of the photo, a pair of feet in pink bunny slippers was just visible. Daisy. I scrolled down to her feed. The same scene, but from a different angle. A shot of Mark’s back as he knelt on the floor, screwdriver in hand. There was a cute cartoon band-aid on his hand. The caption: Some hands are meant to rule the world, but he hurt his helping little ol’ me. So touched! They were practically flirting in public. I casually liked the post. Then I put my phone away and peeled the last shrimp on the table, placing it in my own bowl. Mark sat across from me, a scowl on his face. “Eleanor, when did you become so selfish? You always peel my shrimp for me.” I sipped my chamomile tea, watching him calmly without a word. He stopped, dropping a half-peeled shrimp onto his plate. “Why aren’t you saying anything? You’re not even going to peel them? You used to have a whole bowl ready for me by now.” Used to. Yes. Mark used to say he was clumsy and always pricked his fingers on the shells. He was a designer, he’d say, his hands were his most valuable asset. So every time we had shrimp, I was the one in gloves, my fingers stinging from the spicy oil, peeling each one for him. Watching him eat happily used to feel like a form of joy. Even when my fingers would later become red, swollen, and peel from the spice, he would just casually say, “You don’t have to do that next time,” and then, next time, he would wait expectantly for me to serve him again. “Mark,” I said, setting down my cup. My eyes fell on his long, elegant hands. “Your hands truly are precious.” He took it as a compliment and grunted in agreement. “Of course. These hands have to draw.” “Yes, hands for drawing,” I said with a cold smile. “But they seemed fine the other night in the hallway, when you were fixing our neighbor Daisy’s shoe cabinet. I didn’t hear you complaining about your precious hands then.” “That… Her cabinet was broken, and she’s a single woman. She couldn’t move it herself. I just happened to see her struggling. I couldn’t just walk away, could I? I just gave her a hand.” “‘A hand’? It looked like you brought your entire toolbox.” I scoffed. “Mark, you’re the man who used to wait for me to climb a ladder to change a lightbulb because you claimed you had vertigo. What happened? Did your vertigo magically disappear for the pretty neighbor? Or are your hands only precious when it comes to doing things for other people, and at home, they just wait to be served?” His face flushed a deep red. “Why do you have to be so sarcastic? What’s wrong with neighbors helping each other? Look at you now. What happened to the sweet, gentle woman I married?” “Sweet and gentle?” I put down my chopsticks and wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Mark, my gentleness is for my husband, not for a pampered child. And since your hands are so skilled, don’t expect me to call a handyman anymore when something breaks. We’ll save some money. You, the helpful neighbor, can fix it yourself.” With that, I stood up and started clearing the table. Mark sat there, watching my brisk movements. It probably dawned on him for the first time that the Eleanor who used to smile and agree to everything he said was gone. Good. It’s about time we all faced reality.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "391476", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel