our home while I’m not here?”
Emma looked flustered. My husband? Defensive. “It’s just a shower! She’s been so helpful lately, and she was covered in juice. I told her it was fine
I felt like I was in a bizarre dream. It wasn’t just the shower—it was the way he dismissed my concerns, as if I were overreacting. I turned to Emma and said, “Please go check on the kids.” She nodded quickly and disappeared upstairs.
I stood there, staring at my husband, waiting for an explanation, an apology—anything. Instead, he crossed his arms and said, “You’re blowing this out of proportion.”
I walked out of the room, furious, and sat in the car for what felt like an eternity. Was I overreacting? Or was this a red flag I couldn’t ignore?
The more I thought about it, the more questions flooded my mind. Why was she so comfortable doing that? And why was my husband so quick to defend her? I didn’t have answers then, but I knew one thing for sure: my home didn’t feel like my safe space anymore
