Miranda wanted to use my sloppiness as evidence of my apathy. "You can't even be bothered to pick up your boxers," she said. "How could I trust you to pick up our kids?"
She went on these rampages about once a month -- you know. I tried to ride them out, like a week-long storm in which I had no rudder, no sails, no engine, just me in a little dinghy holding on to the sides for dear life. Sometimes you come out a little wetter, a little more beat up than others. This time I didn't come out at all.
"I've had it," she said. For once she wasn't yelling. In fact, she sounded tired, even a little sad. She didn't look it, though. I did.
She left on a Wednesday. She picked up all my clothes before she left. I'm not sure what the message was.
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