And somehow, at sixty, I had become invisible in my own home.
The next morning, Robert complained that his breakfast was five minutes late.
“Honestly, Margaret, you can’t even do the one thing you’re supposed to do!”
For the first time, I didn’t apologize.
I simply looked at him and smiled.
After he left for work, I opened the bedroom closet and took out the old blue suitcase I hadn’t used in seventeen years.
I packed my clothes, picked up my handbag, and walked toward the front door.
But before leaving, I placed something on the kitchen table.
It was a handwritten letter.
“Dear Robert,
For twenty years, you’ve told me that I do nothing.
So I’ve decided to give you exactly what you’ve always accused me of giving you.
Nothing.
No cooking. No cleaning. No laundry. No ironing. No shopping. No reminding you about bills, appointments, or birthdays.