The Unforgivable Wife and Marriage

Deborah jogged over to stop me.

"You have to cook the oatmeal before you can sleep," she said.

For the first time, I found her so bizarre and unfamiliar.

A compromise was impossible. I pushed her aside, locked the door, and went straight to sleep.

The room had good soundproofing. Whatever they wanted to do was none of my business.

The next day, when I got up to use the bathroom, the lingering yellow filth mixed with a foul smell in the toilet made me nauseous.

There was even a puddle of water mixed with hair on the floor.

I used to worry about Deborah slipping, so every time she finished showering, I would clean up.

I took a deep breath and told myself not to get angry. Whoever made the mess should clean it up themselves.

I loved Deborah and this home. No matter how busy I was, I would always take the time to keep it clean and tidy.

But that didn't mean I would do it now, because I no longer wanted her, and I no longer wanted this home.

I had given up ever since she repeatedly ignored my advice and insisted on bringing Terry home for the night.

This mess was created deliberately by Terry and Deborah to annoy me.

They knew I had OCD and a cleanliness obsession. Just a bit of mess would upset me.

And for the sake of my peace of mind, I always endured and cleaned up.

Before Terry returned from abroad, whenever I upset Deborah, she would mess things up to punish me.

I would clean up while coaxing her, and she enjoyed it immensely. At that time, it was a unique aspect of our relationship.

But now, I see it clearly. She enjoyed treating me like a housemaid, just like last night when she ordered me to take care of Terry.

She never saw me as her husband. She claimed I wasn't an outsider, yet she humiliated me in every action.

I couldn't stay in this house any longer.

I packed my things and went back to my pre-marital apartment to catch up on sleep.

Deborah called, furious, "Thomas! Where are you?"

"I'm sleeping. If you need something, ask Terry, and don't bother me," I replied.

Deborah immediately raised her voice, her piercing soprano hurting my eardrums through the phone.

"The house is such a mess. How can you sleep?"

"I'm not sleeping there, so why wouldn't I sleep well?" I replied.

After enduring over a hundred sleepless nights, why should I continue to torture myself?

"Can't you see the mess at home? I can't stand it anymore," she said.

She couldn't stand the mess she made herself and came to question why I wasn't cleaning it. What kind of twisted logic was this?

"Deborah, I owe you nothing, and I owe Terry nothing. I won't clean up someone else's mess," I retorted.

"What do you mean someone else's mess? Do you still want to live together or not?" she said.

Here it came again!

She always used the same tactic. After countless times, I had gone from initial fear and panic to now being indifferent.

"I don't want to. Let's get a divorce!" I said.

My indifferent attitude pushed Deborah into a full-blown rage.

"Thomas, you said it! Don't regret it!" she said.

Why would I regret it? I only regretted not ending this ridiculous marriage sooner.

The absurdity began with this play.

Deborah and I were supposed to be the main characters in this play.

I worked tirelessly on the script until the shoot began, only for Terry to use tricks to steal the lead role.

The second male lead wasn't bad, and I wanted to challenge a villainous role, so I agreed.

As a result, Deborah brought Terry home and made me teach him the lead role scene by scene.

Even the director called, saying time was tight and hoping I could help.

The exchange of the lead role seemed to reflect my real life.