I kinda liked doing the dishes.
It was like my secret hideout, away from her watching me all the time.
She didn’t care about the kitchen, not really. As long as everything was done, she didn’t hover, didn’t stand over me, criticising my every move. It was the only place in the house where I wasn’t under her thumb.
So I made the most of it.
I scrubbed away at those plates, losing myself in the rhythm of it. The dirtier they were, the better. The tougher the stain, the harder I could scrub. It gave me something to focus on, something to do with my hands.
I could take my hate and anger out on them.
Scrub, rinse, repeat.
I imagined each plate as an insult, each pan as a shove, each glass as the way she looked at me like I was nothing. I ground my teeth and let the sponge squeak against the surface, pushing down harder and harder until my arms ached.
It was stupid, really. Pointless. The dishes didn’t fight back. They didn’t change anything.
But in that moment, I had control.
And that was enough to get me through the night.
