He Might Be an Asshole, But He’s My Asshole

That night, I took a long shower. I could hear my phone vibrating, but I couldn’t answer, because I knew it was Juda calling to ask where I was. My husband came in three times to ask if I was all right. I was crying so hard I couldn’t answer properly between sobs, so I put on some music. When I came out of the bathroom, our son was asleep in his bed, and my husband was watching him. He said, “He’s starting to look more like you. I love looking at his face and seeing the combination of us.” I replied, “I only see your face. Hopefully he won’t get your behavior.” He replied, “I know where you were supposed to be tonight.” “Yes,” I replied, “working on a project with my colleague.” He asked me, “Do you have feelings for him?” I replied, “The question isn’t him. It’s you. Do you, my husband, the father of my child, love me? Do you have any consideration for me? It’s insane that I have to look outside for what I should have in my marriage. You see me as a piece of furniture you bought. You look at me from time to time and use me only when you need to.” He replied that it wasn’t a reason to cheat. He said clearly that he might be an asshole, but he was my asshole. Marriage isn’t like the movies. He said I’m not perfect either: I have high expectations, I’m a control freak. I replied that I have to be like this because of his immaturity. Being with him is like raising two children. It’s exhausting and frustrating. He replied that yes, he’s not easy; yes, he needs time to apply all the rules I ask him to follow. But he loves me, he would never have let someone else destroy our marriage and our family, and I should be ashamed of myself. We have a son together, we’re married; does that mean anything to me? He said that for the next couple of weeks or so, he wouldn’t talk to me, and he gave me an ultimatum: I had six months to find another job, and from now on, he would pick me up from work. I’m not sure I understand how the situation turned in his favor, but apparently, I’m the guilty one in this story, for not thinking about the harm this pseudo-affair did to us. For months afterward, he played it as his trump card. I had to resign. I found a better-paid job, with a promotion. We did pay the nanny for longer hours, so we could go out together more. And when I talk to him, he now takes the trouble to take out his earbuds. I’m not sure what the moral of this story is.