Chapter Eight

I don’t have a lot of time to tell you my whole story. But I’ll try to skim through a few parts for now.

My name is Eric Salas. I was never home before the lock down. Because I’d leave for work early in the morning and come home late at night. I was the breadwinner. I still am but from the depleting unemployment checks that soon is about to stop coming in.

It has been a few months of staying home, and I do not like any of it. Not even the slightest bit.

The children are outrageously out of control. The house is messy; the kitchen sink is always full of dirty dishes; the toilet is never flashed; the beds aren’t made neatly; no time for cooking a decent meal; no family time. Everything in the house is terrible.

I’ve never done anything in the house before; I’m lost to handle it. I’m getting frustrated easily. I scream a lot. I get angry not knowing what to do and the stressful pressure the quarantine has put on my shoulders. I feel badly for my home-staying wife and I grew I deeper appreciations for her strength in handling the housework and wild kids for 14 years and counting.

But I know that I have to do something, to adjust to the unbearable circumstances and be helpful; at least I should try lending a hand, even if I must watch  “How To” videos on YouTube to teach myself to fill the gaps. 

My wife is a great mother and a very strong woman. She deserves, No, she needs a Lot of break, a long overdue vacation if I might add. I can’t believe I’d not seen the toll my negligence has put on her. I’m such a coward.