They were among the few things remaining because I’d been wearing them when he emptied the closet.
“What exactly am I supposed to wear to work on Monday?”
“You’ll figure something out.”
That answer hurt more than I expected.
He wasn’t confused.
He hadn’t accidentally donated the wrong bag.
He knew exactly what he’d taken.
And he didn’t care enough to understand why I needed it back.
“Call Tara,” I said. “Tell her there was a mistake.”
He sighed.
“I’m not humiliating my sister over some clothes.”
“So humiliating your pregnant wife is acceptable?”
“Anna, you’re exhausted. You’re making this bigger than it needs to be.”
I stared at him.
Four years earlier, I’d married a man who used to warm my car on freezing mornings and bring dinner when my hospital shifts ran late.
Now that same man was telling me I was unreasonable for wanting my own clothes.
