I’m starting to feel extremely frustrated about things between Scott and me that I decide it’s time to take action. Only as I come home and find the house empty yet again, I acknowledge that it’s easier said than done. Throwing my keys on the sideboard I wander through to the bathroom. With two empty bottles of conditioner lingering in the shower and dried toothpaste encrusted on the sink, it’s more neglected than usual. The same thought strikes me in the kitchen as I wash away the crumbs from under the toaster and begin to wash the coffee cups that have been abandoned in the sink.
Then I realise the difference: Scott. Our division of chores used to be perfectly clear cut, despite never having formally designated jobs to each other. I’d cook because I enjoyed it. And Scott would look afte
