I sat at the dinner table quietly seething with rage. The first time my husband and I were able to eat together in a week, and there he sat, the chicken getting cold and the white wine getting warm, mid anecdote, as he answered a “quick” work email on his iPhone.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Can’t this wait until after dinner? Plus, it’s after hours! You can answer it later! Don’t you think you’re being…”
It was my own phone ringing, indicating I had a message.
“Go on, answer the email,” my husband laughed.
I tried to resist. I was, after all, in the middle of proving a very important point. But my eyes were already drifting to the screen. I couldn’t stop myself. I had to answer that email.
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