bySlipping into the passenger seat of my fiancé’s truck, I plotted my escape from my new life in the Midwest. Full of angst, I stared ahead at a building while the sound of Steve’s sniffles pierced my chest like knives.
But that wasn’t the answer I wanted. I wanted to work together to maintain an immaculate house. He seemingly wanted to avoid conflict at all costs.was a bust. I sat there and basically treated Steve like I was back in my old job as a Wall Street lawyer, reminding him of all the times he’d made promises about our living rules and standards and then failed to deliver in the ways I wanted.
“I get overwhelmed by messes. Clutter creates chaos in my head. I can’t work if I know I need to clean.”I hadn’t considered that. But I could see how growing up in a small, noisy, stuffed house with seven people and a dog made me extra sensitive to clutter. I agreed to relax my standards, and we’d create a “no-drop zone,” the center kitchen island, to protect my sanity. We’d institute a chore schedule, too, so his boys could pick three things each month to do to help keep the house tidier.
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