Not particularly hot on the heels of Confessions of a Bad Mother come the promised Confessions of a Terrible Wife. I share them in the expectation my readers will not only absolve me of my sins, but that you will alleviate my guilt by sharing your own shameful secrets.
My husband tips his loose change onto the kitchen counter when he gets home. I take it and let him think he must have spent it.
I have no idea how to empty our vacuum cleaner. We’ve had it for five years and the children refer to it as Daddy’s Hoover.
Sometimes I fake an orgasm just because I’m a bit bored.
I sneezed once when cleaning the bathroom and successfully persuaded my husband into believing I am allergic to bleach. Now he keeps all cleaning products safely out of my reach to ensure they don’t aggravate my sinuses.
I can’t make a white sauce. Instead of admitting this I hide shop-bought jars in the airing cupboard and tip the contents into a saucepan when I make a lasagne.
Many years ago I read my husband’s phone bill and saw the same mobile number listed again and again. I plotted the downfall of The Other Woman then seized the phone and rang the number. It was mine.
Once I found one of the babies splashing in the loo with my husband’s toothbrush. I put it on the side and meant to replace it, but I didn’t remember until I saw him brushing his teeth that night.
I am a terrible wife.