Last week, I’d just come back from doing the weekly shop when my husband asked me what I had planned for his dinner because, seeing as I’d be out, I’d not be serving it up (quite literally) on a plate for him. I told him the cupboards were now full so he could take his pick, but he made a comment about me ‘not considering’ him and went and sat in the shed.
In that moment what I to do was tell him to sort his own dinner for once (with a few expletives chucked in), but what I did was apologise and quietly head back to the shops to pick him up something specific, calling a friend on the way. ‘I feel like I have no voice,’ I moaned, repeating
