I lugged a basket of freshly laundered clothes through the living room one Sunday night at the end of December 2019. Matt, my husband, didn’t even spare me a glance. He leaned forward on the couch, eyes glued to the NFL game on the television.
“Yes! The Eagles won!” he screamed, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was three feet away. “They beat the Giants! That’s four wins in a row! We’re in the playoffs!”
“This means more games?” I said from the doorway, imagining Matt parked in front of the TV for hours on end over the next few weeks. The resentment I felt could have filled Lincoln Financial Field, where the Eagles played home games.
“I know! Isn’t it great?” Matt exclaimed. “The Eagles are really on a roll. I wonder who they’ll face in the playoffs?” He checked his phone, apparently intent on finding the answer.
I headed to our bedroom to fold the laundry, not saying another word. I hoped my silencehave to dress like the Phillie Phanatic mascot to get his attention. Watching games felt like a complete waste of time to me when there were so many things that needed to be done to keep our household and family running. It seemed as if my husband was more interested in these games than in me. As if they were pulling him away from our marriage.
