At this time of year, it’s common to take stock of your life, your health, your marriage. In our case, last weekend, it was my husband who took stock. Literally.
He took the vast pot of chicken stock I had spent hours lovingly simmering down, assumed it was leftovers and poured it down the drain.
In previous years, I would have wanted to murder him. It would have been the final straw after a stressful family that has left us both financially and emotionally bankrupt. This year, though, was different. Anthony apologised and said he was an idiot. After a brief flash of the red mist, I admitted it wasn’t the end of the world. We hugged.
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