It was late. Frank hadn’t come home yet. He always came home late. And I just sat on the couch, waiting and looking at the door, like he would miraculously appear.
I knew he wasn’t just working, or going on meetings, or whatever reason he gave me. But I didn’t care, I couldn’t get away from him, I couldn’t leave him.
He found me when I needed someone in my life, he helped me so much, I couldn’t possibly leave him.
I don’t know what changed in the past four years, the warmth that I felt when I was with him faded away, leading to a cold, chilling feeling. But needlessly my mind was drawn to him, making me think that if I left I would be a fucking traitor that just took advantage of him.
I want to feel loved again, I want to be held and to be enough. But I’m never enough, not for him. I wonder why he hasn’t left me if every time he sees me he can’t even look at me in the eyes for more than a few seconds anymore.
“Darling you should lose a few pounds, I don’t want to be seen with a woman whose tights are bigger than mine. And for the love of god, stop cooking that fucking meat loaf. It’s disgusting. Just make something you know.”
He told me several times that he wanted someone normal, but then he made me feel guilty when he suggested to leave me.
“How could I possibly leave you, if you can’t even mend a sock. You would just come back to me, begging, and that would be a waste of time.”
Then I heard the door unlock, but the footsteps where frantic, and different from Frank’s usual ones; I was suddenly scared but fear turned into shock when the door opened.
“Darling please just stay on the fucking couch tonight uh?”
I couldn’t move, or say anything for that matter. The vision before me was squalid to say the least: a drunken Frank with two random girls, or probably hookers, attached to his arms. In our house. Going to our bedroom.
Tears were filling up my eyes when they just walked up the stairs, leaving me there, stranded.
After starting into an abyss for what seemed like days i got up and my mind started realizing the sounds that my ears were hearing. He was fucking them, in our bed. I was downstairs.
I knew he wasn’t faithful to me, but having the proof served to me on a fucking silver plate was like a punch in the gut, a knife so sharp that just seeing it hurt.
Something that felt like despair and anger and betrayal started to come up to me, and I left.
I left the house that had suddenly become empty, the guilt I felt gone. All those years of me being absolutely nothing were being slapped into my face.
He didn’t care about me, at all. I was a prop to show to his friends, a maid that took care of his house and made him dinner.