End of the road

I STUMBLED through the door of my house. It was 7 in the morning. I knew I would have to come up with some excuse. But when I went to the bedroom to see if my wife was sleeping, the door was locked. The woman who'd adored me, stood by me and loved me had locked me out of the bedroom. With a head full of booze, I knocked on the door and she did not respond. I knocked again, and this time she opened the door without saying a word. I was about to lay into her, but I could hear that she had been crying by the sniffs and noises she was making. Who the hell was she to get mad at me? I was working; I was bringing home money; she had food on the table and gas in the car. Two could play at this game. I decided not to speak with her, either, and I lay down and tried to sleep. But as the booze filtered through my kidneys, I began to feel the sickness that I had become accustomed to. After about an hour, realizing that she was not asleep, I asked her what was wrong. I hoped for some smart remark so that we could go at it and I could put her in her place. Instead she just said that something was wrong with me, and that she would be leaving for a few days. Her reaction scared me.