In July, I will have lived in this apartment for two years. In June, I will have been divorced for one year. I’ve had plenty of time to observe and reflect over the whole situation. I’ve spun lots of shoulda, woulda, coulda’s through my mind, but this past weekend, I was hit with an epiphany of sorts.

We were fortunate enough to have a very nice house. I cleaned continuously during the week and most of the day on Saturdays. I performed this work not only because I enjoyed a clean house, but because if things were out of order, he would bitch at me. Even though he worked at home, he didn’t assist with housework because he said he was busy working, and besides that, he cut the grass. If I tried to help with the yard work, he would bitch at me because I wasn’t doing it right—whatever “it” was.

I’ve often thought that people only bitch about things that they feel strongly about. He liked an orderly house, so he bitched about it. He liked the yard to look a certain way, so he bitched about it.

My oldest daughter went back to the house to visit her dad. She came back home to me and said, “Mom, you wouldn’t believe the house.” She told me that the yard was cut, but not landscaped. The house was filthy—so filthy that she didn’t feel comfortable sitting down.

I thought about it. I thought about all the bitching that I took. Really. I just took it. I took bitching over the neighbors having a kiddie pool and that it would draw mosquitos. I took bitching over the neighborhood kids cutting through our yard to make their way to the bus stop. I took bitching over the way the water drained from our neighbor’s yard into ours. I took if from the time I got home from work, until I went back to work the next morning. As, I reflected over all this bitching, I realized that he didn’t necessarily feel strongly about the house or the yard, but that he just felt strongly about bitching at me.

At one point, I’d asked him to please let me get in the house, set my purse down, and use the bathroom before he started bitching at me. That lasted for a couple of days. These days, I’m able to walk into my own home, check the mail, set my purse down, use the bathroom, and then walk the dog. Now, if I can just convince the dog to wait until I’m out of the bathroom before he starts licking my face. But really, it’s all good.