Read Online The Husband Diet (A Romantic Comedy) by Nancy Barone - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy Barone
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only louder. “You are upturning their entire world!” Which was only half true, really.
Sure, divorce was always painful. But in my heart I knew there was nothing keeping us together anymore as a family. All those years, slaving for him, to make his life comfortable, to compensate for his own shitty mother, working day in day out for years on end to finally be able to buy Quincy Shore Drive, to support him, raising our kids single-handedly, then going to his office on weekends to scrub his urinals and sort out his accounting books. And what the hell had I got out of it if not shattered confidence and a broken heart?
Maybe Maddy and Warren would actually benefit from this separation, seeing Mommy and Daddy unburdened by love woes? Then a thought. His lover would, if it lasted, eventually want to become part of the kids’ life. Or would she? Some people don’t want to know. Sooner or later, I’d find out who she was. There was no way I was exposing my kids to a homewrecker.
No. Divorce was the only solution now. Emotionally and financially. Because, at the rate he was going, given the time and trust, he’d wipe me out completely. We had a prenup, the house was in my name. I had Nonna ’s inheritance. All I needed was to get my life back in gear. And my dream house in Tuscany.
Screw Ira. Somebody screw him, because I sure wouldn’t be doing it anymore. Not that there was any danger of that happening. And yet, although our marriage had been sinking for years, betrayal had come as a surprise. And it hurt big time.
Sure, I knew my weight had been an issue, but what about him, and the way he ’d aged? Shouldn’t that have been a deal-breaker as well? Kind of like the What’s good for the goose is good for the gander thing?
I should have seen the signs. He liked that I cooked all the time, but whenever I put something in my mouth that wasn’t a leaf of lettuce or an apple, he’d go ballistic.
On Fridays I always baked multiple recipes in my fantastic, multi-function oven. Once, I remember, I’d made a pizza, a roast with vegetables and an apple pie. Which, out of sheer frustration (or gluttony, call it whatever you want, I don’t care anymore), I’d polished off, one slice at a time, in the space of an afternoon. And then he’d pushed his empty plate away and said, “That was great, Erica. How about that pie I can smell?”
“Uhm, didn’t I tell you? It was an apple crumble. It didn’t turn out that good—I burned it, so I threw it away.”
Ira had turned in his seat and stared at me. I’d tried to keep an honest-looking face, but I was sweating. That’s why I never made the selections for the drama groups at school.
“You ate the whole thing,” he sentenced as if pronouncing someone—or something—dead.
My mouth screwed into a grimace and my eyes fell to my empty plate.
There we went: three, two, one…
Keep it light, Erica, I’d told myself. Keep it light. Don’t let him hurt your feelings. What I should have done was read the damn signs of our crumbling relationship. This was the life I’d lived up to that point.
Chapter 7:
The Final Countdown
T he next morning—my first as an unburdened woman—I rose extra early, woke the kids up and drove them to school where we parked and ate muffins. We were the first to arrive, and would probably be the last to leave after school, because I couldn’t envisage going home as long as he was there.
Two more months to Christmas. I could do it. If I’d pretended everything was all right all these years, what were sixty measly days?
As if to speed up time, I worked like a madwoman all day, never stopping once, and at the stroke of three I hauled my betrayed ass out of the office and picked up my kids. Only instead of taking them home where Ira was bound to return sooner or later, or to a healthy alternative like my aunts’ restaurant, I took them to McDonald’s. I was going to turn them into blimps at this rate. They obliviously munched on their
Sure, divorce was always painful. But in my heart I knew there was nothing keeping us together anymore as a family. All those years, slaving for him, to make his life comfortable, to compensate for his own shitty mother, working day in day out for years on end to finally be able to buy Quincy Shore Drive, to support him, raising our kids single-handedly, then going to his office on weekends to scrub his urinals and sort out his accounting books. And what the hell had I got out of it if not shattered confidence and a broken heart?
Maybe Maddy and Warren would actually benefit from this separation, seeing Mommy and Daddy unburdened by love woes? Then a thought. His lover would, if it lasted, eventually want to become part of the kids’ life. Or would she? Some people don’t want to know. Sooner or later, I’d find out who she was. There was no way I was exposing my kids to a homewrecker.
No. Divorce was the only solution now. Emotionally and financially. Because, at the rate he was going, given the time and trust, he’d wipe me out completely. We had a prenup, the house was in my name. I had Nonna ’s inheritance. All I needed was to get my life back in gear. And my dream house in Tuscany.
Screw Ira. Somebody screw him, because I sure wouldn’t be doing it anymore. Not that there was any danger of that happening. And yet, although our marriage had been sinking for years, betrayal had come as a surprise. And it hurt big time.
Sure, I knew my weight had been an issue, but what about him, and the way he ’d aged? Shouldn’t that have been a deal-breaker as well? Kind of like the What’s good for the goose is good for the gander thing?
I should have seen the signs. He liked that I cooked all the time, but whenever I put something in my mouth that wasn’t a leaf of lettuce or an apple, he’d go ballistic.
On Fridays I always baked multiple recipes in my fantastic, multi-function oven. Once, I remember, I’d made a pizza, a roast with vegetables and an apple pie. Which, out of sheer frustration (or gluttony, call it whatever you want, I don’t care anymore), I’d polished off, one slice at a time, in the space of an afternoon. And then he’d pushed his empty plate away and said, “That was great, Erica. How about that pie I can smell?”
“Uhm, didn’t I tell you? It was an apple crumble. It didn’t turn out that good—I burned it, so I threw it away.”
Ira had turned in his seat and stared at me. I’d tried to keep an honest-looking face, but I was sweating. That’s why I never made the selections for the drama groups at school.
“You ate the whole thing,” he sentenced as if pronouncing someone—or something—dead.
My mouth screwed into a grimace and my eyes fell to my empty plate.
There we went: three, two, one…
Keep it light, Erica, I’d told myself. Keep it light. Don’t let him hurt your feelings. What I should have done was read the damn signs of our crumbling relationship. This was the life I’d lived up to that point.
Chapter 7:
The Final Countdown
T he next morning—my first as an unburdened woman—I rose extra early, woke the kids up and drove them to school where we parked and ate muffins. We were the first to arrive, and would probably be the last to leave after school, because I couldn’t envisage going home as long as he was there.
Two more months to Christmas. I could do it. If I’d pretended everything was all right all these years, what were sixty measly days?
As if to speed up time, I worked like a madwoman all day, never stopping once, and at the stroke of three I hauled my betrayed ass out of the office and picked up my kids. Only instead of taking them home where Ira was bound to return sooner or later, or to a healthy alternative like my aunts’ restaurant, I took them to McDonald’s. I was going to turn them into blimps at this rate. They obliviously munched on their
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