He wants accolades for doing the dishes while I work to keep us afloat.
He wants applause for taking out the trash.
He expects constant validation, and when he doesn’t get it, he spirals.
I feel like I’m trapped in a well, clawing desperately toward the light. Every time I think I’m making progress, he drags me back down.
He’s suffocating me.
As I sit in the quiet of our apartment, I feel the weight of it all pressing down on me.
I love Timmy—or at least, the version of him I thought I knew.
But this isn’t love anymore.
This is survival.
And I’m not sure how much longer I can keep climbing out of this well, only to be pulled back down.
CHAPTER 92
TEMU TIMMY
MARGAUX
“I’m going to go sell this chainsaw and bring you twenty dollars,” Timmy announces, his voice tinged with a rare sense of purpose.
I side-eye him skeptically. “Um, okay?”
It’s an oddly specific promise, but I’m cautiously optimistic. Perhaps this is one of those fleeting moments where he wants to contribute financially, to do something remotely responsible.
He disappears, chainsaw in hand, and doesn’t come back for over an hour.
There must be some fast and furious chainsaw negotiations taking place.
I send him a text.
Me:
Where are you?
Timmy:
I’ll be back soon.
When he finally returns, I’m immediately hit by the unmistakable stench of cheap vodka. His steps are wobbly, his grin lopsided.
There’s no sign of the twenty dollars he promised.
“Where’s the money you got for the chainsaw?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“What money?” His face is blank, his head tilting to one side like a confused puppy.
“You said you were going to get me twenty dollars.”
Realization dawns, slow and foggy. “Oh. I bought a bottle of vodka. Sorry.” His apology is anything but genuine.
“Seriously?” My voice is louder than I intended.