I thought I was a good husband. So when Deanna started photographing our kitchen every morning, I never considered that the reason might have something to do with me. It wasn’t until I discovered hundreds of those pictures on her phone that I realized something was seriously wrong.
The morning after I discovered the album on Deanna’s phone, I couldn’t stop watching her.
She moved through the usual morning rush, getting the kids fed and ready while cleaning up behind them.
Then, right before leaving for work, she stood in the doorway and took a picture of the kitchen.
Click.
“Have a good day,” she said, kissing my cheek.
I watched her leave and felt strangely accused.
Deanna had already told me the pictures weren’t about me.
“It’s for my own peace of mind,” she’d said.
But after finding hundreds of nearly identical kitchen photos on her phone, I couldn’t let it go.
For the next few days, I became hyperaware of the room.
I rinsed my plates. I put food away. I made the kids clean up their snack wrappers.
One afternoon, I even swept and wiped the counters.
When Deanna came home, she stopped in the doorway.
Her eyes traveled around the kitchen.
Then she looked at me and smiled.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
She hesitated.
“Nothing.”
I should have paid attention.
Instead, I congratulated myself.
Whatever strange test I’d imagined she was giving me, I’d apparently passed.
The next day, I went back to normal.
A few mornings later, I watched Deanna finish cleaning the kitchen.
Then she picked up her phone.
Click.
Something in me snapped.
“Okay. We need to talk.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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