For five years of our marriage, I had convinced myself that my husband’s fixation with our master bathroom was nothing more than an unusual habit.
Every day, Ethan scrubbed the porcelain three times. Morning, evening, and again before bed, I heard the steady, aggressive scrape of his bristle brush against the surfaces.
He always cleaned by himself.
He always came out smelling strongly of citrus ammonia and industrial-strength bleach.
Whenever I offered to help, he would gently wave me away.
“I’ve got it, Nat. Go relax,” he’d murmur, pressing a warm kiss to my forehead.
Who questions a husband who insists on keeping the house immaculate?
I never did.
Instead, I trained myself to sleep through the suffocating chemical fumes and accepted his behavior as simply one of those peculiar things about the person I loved.
Then my seemingly perfect life began to unravel when my oldest friend, Clare, came to visit.
