If you are going to invite the missionaries over, you should at least be there to help. I know I said that I would take care of it, but you should know that I meant I would take care of most of it. Not all. I still need you there to help. But no, you are off studying somewhere. Thinking that everything is going to be perfect when you get back. But really, I just got out of the shower from work, my hairs is sopping, my make-up is not done, the house is a mess, we don’t have a bread, drink, or a dessert, and the table isn’t set. So yes, I took care of the main dish, but you should have been there for the rest.
This is my thought process as I am bumbling around trying to get everything together for the missionaries. I grumbled and gave David the cold shoulder as soon as he entered the door. He said sorry. He said, “Please forgive me. I didn’t know.” But I continued to turn from him. And then he had to leave to pick up the missionaries. So our night will be filled with fake smiles and superficial conversation about how everything is going fine. I pick up the computer and books off the kitchen table and lug them into the bedroom. I realize that I also have to write a talk about baptism for tomorrow, and I haven’t even begun. Talk. Speeches. I pause as I throw the lettuce into a bowl. David had to give a speech last night at the dinner he went to.
I was sitting at the computer when he finally walked through the door last night at . I looked up, annoyed.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said, “How are you?”
“I thought you said it would be over at ?” I questioned.
“Well, it went longer.”
I roll my eyes, “Typical of your life.”
Do I ask how the dinner went? Do I ask how his speech—that I helped write—was received? No. I don’t even ask him about his day. I proceed to tell him about the frustrations of mine and how I can’t get certified and how I have to find a temp job before I go crazy. How I can’t stand being alone for that long each day. How I want to go back home. How I, how I, how I.
But I didn’t even ask him about his day.
I slow down as I set the table and really wish I hadn’t been so unkind when he first came in. How I wish I wasn’t emotional. How I wish that I had given him a hug and let the house be messy when the missionaries came and forget the stupid side dishes, at least we would be happy. How I wish that I had asked him about his day. How I, how I, how I.
And that’s when I realize, not only do I get worst wife award—but I deserve it.