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up.
    “So the problem in your view is that I have choices?” she asked.
    The therapist smiled in an irritated way. “The problem is that you’ve been insensitive to your husband’s needs for comfort and routine. He’s clearly a very traditional man, and I find it hard to believe that after two years of dating you were unaware of that.”
    She crossed her arms. “I told you already. He hid that part of himself.”
    Inside, she had to agree with Dr. Gates: it did seem impossible that she hadn’t seen that side of him. Sure, Scott’s father was a domineering tyrant who wanted his wife to serve him coffee every day in exactly the same mug at 7am sharp, but her boyfriend had never been like that at all. The man she knew from two years of dating had been attentive, kind, sexy, spontaneous, and most important, he talked to her. The most perfect of perfect catches, everyone agreed. He’d had a chivalrous streak she found a little old-fashioned and endearing in a world of oblivious hipsters who were often more interested in their video games than they were in her. Most guys had made her feel like she rated only slightly higher than a Fleshlight, but Scott was never indifferent. He’d never failed to make her feel special. Was that the secret-tip off? He’d held open doors and pulled out chairs and mostly bought dinner; was all that her cue that some strange switch was going to flip after the rings were on and he’d start turning into a clone of the old man? She couldn’t believe it.
    Dr. Gates broke her from her reverie: “You need to be more sensitive to his needs. If he makes space for you at home, will you stay home to paint?”
    “Well, of course.”
    “And would it kill you to cook?” the therapist asked, his tone joking. Ha-ha, only serious.
    She had to struggle to keep her hand tucked under her elbow. “I. Already. Do.”
    “But only a few times a week, right? Takeout and frozen dinners make him feel unloved.”
    “It was his idea to get Chinese takeout once a week. And he could cook, too.”
    “Now, Rhetta. This is about partnership. He has considerably more job responsibilities than you do, and it’s only fair that you take over more of the household duties.”
    Rhetta thought about asking the therapist to do the math on how much work she did between her day job and the freelance, but she bit back that reply. Apparently her career was a choice, and his was a hero’s quest. “Fine. I’ll cook.”
    “Then it’s settled.” Dr. Gates smiled at her, then at Scott. “Be sure to give your father my best.”
    “I will,” her husband replied.
    *
    Scott gave up the walk-in closet in the hallway. It was just big enough for her chair, an easel, a stand for her laptop and Wacom tablet, plus a few bins of supplies. She replaced the sallow overhead light with a bulb that emitted a natural spectrum. A room with a window would have been better, but at least she finally had her own private space in the apartment. She lined the beige walls with her art and made do. It felt a little too much like a cell, and there wasn’t enough air circulation for her to use oils or acrylics without feeling woozy, but she was able to immerse herself in the pencil lines and digital paint strokes and got her commissioned pieces done on time.
    But her new schedule got harder and harder to maintain. She had to be up by 6 to catch the bus to work, and after work she immediately got to work on their dinner and chores. Afterward, Scott would want her to keep him company while he watched his favorite sitcoms. Sometimes it was 9 or 10 before she got to work in her art closet. Most nights she was up until 1 or 2 in the morning.
    The constant low-grade sleep deprivation started taking its toll. She missed her bus a few times and was late to her job, and on a couple of embarrassing situations she fell asleep in long meetings. One day her boss called her into his office and told her she was on probation for three months and would be fired if