The scented candlelight flickered over his fingers as they gently caressed my skin and then traced our wedding picture on the table. His fingers lingered on my lips; the heat was building up under the quilt, but my distracted mind noticed a metallic taste on his fingers. "Maybe he would have opened the jammed lock much easier than me, if not for the urgent call he had to make," I mused, caressing his hair, ignoring the wound on my finger from my one-hour, single-handed attempt to break the malfunctioned lock in our apartment.
I lay on the bed while he washed up, blaming my incompetence for not achieving the O, and somewhere in between, I fell asleep.
The breezy morning was begging for more sleep, but I was awakened by the clatter of utensils in the kitchen, followed by him yelling my name for help. I knew what had happened, today being his turn to cook, but I was only curious about the extent of the disaster this time. The toppled vessel of half-cooked sambar had created a mess on the stove, kitchen floor, and table. Vegetable peels and spilt wheat flour mocked my loose pyjamas and messy hair. "Sorry, I’ve told you many times I’m not good at this like you," he handed me the spatula and walked off, leaving the mess for me to clean.
It's been months since I made a reel for "What’s in my husband’s lunchbox." Not that I don’t pack it every day, but somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling good about it. Left with no choice, I do it monotonously and receive texts amidst work about how a pinch of salt would have improved the bindi.
It's been ages since I did something for myself because I never have the time after marriage. There are times when I run to the office washroom to cry for no apparent reason. Maybe I need help. He was home early that day. When I entered, he handed me a box of chocolates and a list for dinner. He pecked my cheek while I carried the water can to the kitchen to load the drinking water tank. The noise from the PlayStation was deafening. It made perfect sense to tear down the chore chart from the kitchen wall where we divided our responsibilities equally. I realized I was better off without the mess.
At the dinner table, I tried to open up to him, but all I got was, "I’m not used to doing all this. You know how to do it perfectly. I thought you enjoyed taking care of me, looking after my stuff, being by my side always." I so badly wanted to snap back with, "I didn’t have a choice!" but I swallowed the words. I didn’t have the strength for an argument.
To all the banter that goes, "You don’t have a kid yet, so what’s stopping you from following your passion?" Maybe... I already have one. This could be the reason I’m not ready for a child. I’m already burdened with one who needs constant attention and care.
Yes, I’m married to an adult child.
---
PS: An adult child is a gender-neutral term referring to an adult with child-like characteristics who shirks shared responsibilities, pushing them onto their partner. They weaponize their incompetence when tasked with chores and are often ungrateful for their partner's emotional and physical support. They struggle to take care of themselves and others. A recent study suggests that an adult child's ineptitude can diminish their partner’s libido.
*This is a fictional story. Many enjoy having an adult child partner. These are personal preferences, and we should respect that.*
Comments
Post a Comment