“Don’t you get tired?” I asked, my own exhaustion evident. It had been another night, another work event which had resulted in a murderous argument on the way home. He’d sped through the dark streets, cutting corners and blowing through changing traffic lights, his jaw tense, clenching as anger polluted his mind the way it often did nowadays. I’d sat in the passenger seat, my fingers gripping the expensive leather harder each time I felt his foot apply more pressure to the accelerator, hoping that by some miracle tonight would not be the night we’d be rear ended by another preoccupied idiot that didn’t care for the rules of the road. Two of those kinds of people could only produce disaster, and lately, the man beside me seemed to have gotten a reputation for preceding chaos.

“Tired?” He repeated mockingly, twisting away from me, heading to the other side of the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of whiskey from a high cabinet on the end. We’d made it home before he’d reached for the bottle. _This time. _The last time he’d been in this mood he’d stopped by a convenience store on the way home, twisting the cap off and taking a swig in the drivers seat, paying no attention to my taut, nervous form. “It’s a fucking hundred hour week, Ellis, every week. You try it and tell me you’re not tired.” He twisted the cap off of the bottle, bypassing a glass, instead taking a swig.

“I work.” I said defensively, “Who do you think is raising your kids while you work your _hundred_ hour weeks?” I could feel myself becoming hysterical. It was what looking after a four year old, a two year old and a four month old did to you, I hadn’t slept in weeks, if not months. The husband that rarely arrived home before eight thirty in the evening certainly wasn’t help, and neither were the work dinners once a week, with the preppy twenty-eight year old career girls who looked amazing in their designer dresses and sky high heels while I rocked up in flats, spanks, and split ends. Life was exhausting.

“That’s different.” He said passively, “You’re home, you get you swan about in your pyjamas most of the day and take care of things leisurely, you’re with the kids, you can be yourself without the pressure that they might just fire you for it.” He’d loosened his tie, unbuttoning the first two buttons of his white shirt. I hated to admit it but even in the aftermath of his cutting, unforgiving perspective, I was enamoured by the sheer appeal of the action. I frowned with the mental weakness that allowed him to get away with acting like a prick, it had worked so many times for him that it now seemed unnatural to call him out for it. But, recently it had been different. Less ignorant and more intentionally cruel. He was never home, rageful or drunk when he was, with absolutely no interest in the children at all. I watched as he moved from the kitchen over to the living room, taking a seat on the sofa, digging around for the remote, the sound of sports filling the space.

“You’re right.” I said sarcastically. “Every days a holiday. In fact, I’m thinking about having another baby just to give myself a challenge.” At this his head snapped to face me, all thoughts of sports thrown out the window.

“What?” He said breathlessly, his face draining of colour, eyeing me from where I stood behind the sofa, infront of the kitchen.

“_Jesus,”_ I spat, “it’s a joke. Don’t flatter yourself.” I felt my heart beat fast at his reaction, the one that communicated perfectly well that he was living a reality that didn’t bring him much, if any, joy. It hurt my heart, a fat lump boiling at the back of my throat at the thought of our family, our kids, making him miserable. And then, like all good wives, I felt myself slip seamlessly into denial, the way we’d been taught to when our husbands stomped on our hearts.

“If it’s the job, quit.” I suggested stoically. It was the same conversation we’d been having for months. Precisely four, although my mind wouldn’t allow me to make a connection out of it. _Quit_. Like it really was that simple to just quit the only income you had with three kids, a draining mortgage and a finance payment on a SUV to manage.

“Ell, we need to talk.” He sighed, turning off the TV, twisting his entire body to face me. I frowned at the formality, assuming the worst. _He’s been fired. _For all my suggesting, I’d never once thought it was actually a good idea to leave the job. I could feel my hysteria bubbling into frantic despair in a split second in preparation of receiving the news. _What were we going to do?_

“I want a divorce.”

I stared blankly down at him, not quite understanding. “What?” I said slowly.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and well, it’s just not getting any better between us, is it?” He ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. I was silent, unable to form an exact thought. _Divorce? _

_“_Ells?” He prompted when I didn’t reply.

“What about soft play?” I asked quietly in a voice I didn’t recognise as my own.

He frowned, looking up at me from where he sat like I’d lost my mind. I couldn’t help but share his concern, afterall, he’d just proposed divorce and my mind had instantly decided it was time to worry about a weekly commitment to take the children to the local play centre together. It was the kind of question that seemed right to broach, if we weren’t together, how would the kids see their parents together, to know that they’d been made with love and had continued to sow such an emotion into something which had just soured considerably in the two seconds that had passed since he’d dropped his bombshell. Even as the thought translated, I realised it hadn’t been why I’d asked, in truth the question hadn’t really been for him, since when was the last time he’d bothered to turn up anyway? No, the question was for me. A sick realisation that in the space of seconds I’d become a single mother, for if he made no effort when he lived in the same house as them, what chances did they have without the close proximity?

“I meant what about the kids?” I corrected.

“I’ll pay child support. You can have sole custody if you want.”

There it was, my life cracking in two in front of me, too fast for me to do anything about it.

I was quiet, unsure what else to say, luckily, it seemed the same couldn’t be said for him.

“I’ve met someone else.”

This, it seemed, was the thing that brought me back, the thing that made me realise exactly who I was dealing with, which for what it was worth, was not a man I recognised.

“What?”

“I’m in love.”

I took a step back, unable to believe what I was hearing. “How long?”

“Six months.” He admitted, having the decency to look guilty.

“So while I was eight months pregnant, you what, went and picked up a woman from a bar?” I was outraged. Hurt, devasted, debilitated - yes. But right now, the most prominent feeling was one of rage.

“No. She works in my department.”

_100 hour weeks._

I wondered how many of them he spent flirting with her, nevermind what else.

It was then that another thought occurred to me, “Was she at dinner?”

He was silent, providing an answer that released a pained sob from the back of my throat. I twisted in an instance, unable to listen to anything more, bolting for the stairs as huge wracked cries escaped my chest. I moved quickly, frantically to get away from him and his undeniable ability to damage everything and everyone he came into contact with. Only when I reached my son’s room did I stop.

_Six months._

I sank to the floor beside his cot, my hands reaching through the chalky white bars, resting on his chest, the feel of his warmth radiating through his sleep suit. He was perfect, not one flaw existing within him, entirely brand new to life. He looked like his father, I hoped silently he’d never be like him.

The kind of man he was, wasn’t worth being.

The kind of man who did that to his family, his pregnant wife, to his kids.

I took a deep breath certain in the knowledge of what had to be done next, and for a second I felt a strange sense of calm, an acceptance of the kind of husband he’d been, and the kind of wife he’d eventually moulded me into. He had no one to blame but himself. If he wasn’t going to love me, he wasn’t going to love anyone. I stood, smoothing down my dress, quietly closing the door on my sleeping newborn before heading back down the stairs, to serve karma to a man who’d taken advantage of me for the last time.