I couldn't, at least for this night, deal with listening to him complain any more.
I feel like I'm 40.
I have to button his shirts for him.
I can't count the number of times I day I'm called on to provide assistance.
Sometimes he thanks me for it.
Sometimes he doesn't.
Most of the time, I don't remember one way or the other.
I'm hairs' breadth away from being treated, outright, like help.
Tonight, when the call for help came, I just...snapped.
I punched a nearby wall hard enough to leave a small dent in it.
I did what he asked me to.
Then I left.
I returned some time later, and was offered a weak apology.
I don't know for how much longer I can do this.