It costs four hundred and fifty dollars per month to keep your wife in storage. That's how much Aunt Muddy charges for rent at the old family house Grandma Jody left her. It's a bargain really, at more than a third your current rent. The hidden cost comes in the form of your wife being back in proximity to her family. She will be with them every waking minute, obviously.
The last twenty years of running interference is almost immediately bankrupted when she calls to make the arrangements. No one says 'I told you so' or that they've been expecting this call for the last two decades, but you can feel the needle from three states away.
Your wife seems oblivious to the prick as she packs her books. Why does she need all those books? So many books. She wasted no time, did she? The first box may have even been packed before she called Aunt Muddy.
She ought to be upset at what they've got to be thinking about her. She ought to have more pride than that. But she doesn't care, she just keeps packing and humming random snatches of songs that don't go together, like she's happy or pretending to be or something. Someone needs to kick her jukebox.
It's about time, really. Your wife wanted to leave since you first got together. You've been telling her so forever. This is not shocking, she's just finally proving you right.
Take all the blame. Tell her she can tell them it was your idea, that it's all your fault. You might as well, they're going to think so anyway. Telling her that should remove all the hesitation she's hiding behind that infernal whistling. She has only stayed this long because of not wanting to go back to them and hear all those told you so's. She's been trying to save face, but all that's over with now.
Just listen- you can already hear those old biddies, talking all over each other and cackling to the roof beams; trying to cheer her up.
It will be nice not to have to worry about all of that anymore.
Out of sight, out of mind.
