She’d walked on eggshells in hiking boots. She’d walked across eggshells in heels. She’d even walked on eggshells in bare feet. It didn’t matter how delicately she stepped. She’d tried to step around them. She knew the eggshells would cut the soles of her feet. And still – every day – she walked on eggshells.
She could tell you how long she’d been at it – since before she’d married him.
Every morning, she’d walk into the kitchen and there they were – the shells scattered across the hardwoods. She would step around them and grab for the broom. She’d sweep up the pile as he was leaving for work. All day long, she’d walk through the kitchen and notice that the shells were gone, but the minute she heard his car in the drive, the shells would reappear.
She’d find herself stepping over eggshells for the rest of the evening. She’d serve his dinner while crunching over shells. She’d clean up the kitchen while stepping on still more shells. Most nights, there was nothing she could do or say that would make them go away. But once in a great while, she’d do something right – she couldn’t even tell you what it was, but she’d look over her shoulder and the shells would be gone. Continue reading →