He comes home way past dinner time again and acts as if it’s okay he ignored my calls all night.
‘Soup might still be warm if you’re lucky.’
I don’t know why I’m even talking to him.
‘Sorry, honey. Work meeting ran over.’
To the pub? Does he really believe I can’t smell the booze on his breath?
‘Better late, right?’
There’s nothing different about tonight, with one exception.
‘Yes, better late.’
I’ve dutifully swallowed his lies for weeks, but I can’t leave standing up for myself until late turns into never. Tonight, I take my bags and start over.
(Story 2 of 31 for Story A Day, inspired by this week’s Moral Mondays prompt: better late than never)