Leaving The Repairman And My Wife Alone Was The Most Regretful Decision I Have Ever Made-2
The Slammed Door
Emma said nothing. She just yanked the soaked towel free and hurled it, untwisted, onto the flooded floor. A sodden thud. She pushed past me, splashing through the mess, and vanished into the bedroom. The door slammed shut with a force that echoed in my ears. I stared at the puddle, the heavy, water-logged towel, a hollow ache spreading in my chest. Only the dripping pipe remained. Our son, rubbing sleep from his eyes, appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Daddy? What’s wrong? The floor’s all wet." I waved him away irritably, "Nothing! Go get dressed for school!" My sharp tone made him flinch. He shot me a frightened look before scurrying away.
Mopping Up
Raking a hand through my hair, I surveyed the swamp. Defeated, I sighed, rolled up my pajama legs, and got to work. Finding the main water valve, I twisted it shut. The maddening drip finally ceased, leaving the kitchen eerily silent. I gathered every old towel and rag, spreading them over the floor. Wringing out the heavy, saturated cloths sent streams of water gushing into a bucket. The floor remained slick. Emma never emerged. Our son reappeared in his uniform, sitting at the table. Finally, Emma came out, expression still shuttered. She retrieved milk and cereal from the fridge, setting them before him. "Hurry up, you’ll be late."
The Cold Departure
Her voice was flat. She didn’t glance my way once. Standing awkwardly in shoes and socks at the kitchen entrance, I felt like superfluous furniture. The air thickened. We moved like strangers preparing to leave. Emma took our son out first. I locked up. In the driveway, she opened her old Honda’s door for him. Standing by my own car, I opened my mouth—"Drive safe," perhaps—but her door slammed shut. The engine roared to life, the car swinging out and vanishing around the corner. My unspoken words stuck in my throat.
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Emma said nothing. She just yanked the soaked towel free and hurled it, untwisted, onto the flooded floor. A sodden thud. She pushed past me, splashing through the mess, and vanished into the bedroom. The door slammed shut with a force that echoed in my ears. I stared at the puddle, the heavy, water-logged towel, a hollow ache spreading in my chest. Only the dripping pipe remained. Our son, rubbing sleep from his eyes, appeared in the kitchen doorway. "Daddy? What’s wrong? The floor’s all wet." I waved him away irritably, "Nothing! Go get dressed for school!" My sharp tone made him flinch. He shot me a frightened look before scurrying away.
Mopping Up
Raking a hand through my hair, I surveyed the swamp. Defeated, I sighed, rolled up my pajama legs, and got to work. Finding the main water valve, I twisted it shut. The maddening drip finally ceased, leaving the kitchen eerily silent. I gathered every old towel and rag, spreading them over the floor. Wringing out the heavy, saturated cloths sent streams of water gushing into a bucket. The floor remained slick. Emma never emerged. Our son reappeared in his uniform, sitting at the table. Finally, Emma came out, expression still shuttered. She retrieved milk and cereal from the fridge, setting them before him. "Hurry up, you’ll be late."
The Cold Departure
Her voice was flat. She didn’t glance my way once. Standing awkwardly in shoes and socks at the kitchen entrance, I felt like superfluous furniture. The air thickened. We moved like strangers preparing to leave. Emma took our son out first. I locked up. In the driveway, she opened her old Honda’s door for him. Standing by my own car, I opened my mouth—"Drive safe," perhaps—but her door slammed shut. The engine roared to life, the car swinging out and vanishing around the corner. My unspoken words stuck in my throat.
NEXT >>