Too Late To Love Me Now

For our third wedding anniversary, Connor asked me what I wanted.

My friend Sarah had called me an idiot. "Other wives ask for diamond tennis bracelets or a week in Cabo," she’d said over the phone. "And you’re asking for a Bosch dishwasher."

I didn’t argue. I just sat on the edge of the bed, gently rubbing the cracked, peeling skin on my knuckles. I just wanted the raw, aching dermatitis—a souvenir from years of scrubbing pots in freezing water—to stop burning.

But a month passed, and the delivery never came.