It’s late afternoon in our cramped kitchen, and the hum of the refrigerator does little to mask the soft, scratching noise coming from beneath the cabinets. I glance down just in time to see a rat dart out, quick and desperate, a flash in the corner of my eye. My wife, standing at the sink, her back to me, mutters something about the gnawing sounds that kept her awake last night.
“It was so loud, I couldn’t sleep,” she says.
I nod, though she can’t see me. “I saw one just now,” I reply, trying to keep my tone even, as if discussing the weather.
The rat feels like more than just a pest. It’s a crack in the fragile calm we’ve managed to maintain in our marriage. The way my wife barely looks at me when she mentions it, the way I find myself brushing off the messiness in our lives—it’s all uneasy, like we’re tiptoeing around something neither of us wants to face.
Our lives have become a tangled mess of routines that we barely keep up with. I’m constantly working overtime at a job that barely covers the rent and groceries, while my wife juggles part-time shifts and caring for our two kids. Evenings are filled with late dinners and whispered worries about everything from the leaky faucet to the next unexpected bill. We’re moving, but it feels like we’re sinking in place.
The landlord, of course, holds all the cards. He’s been slow to fix the plumbing, dismissive when we’ve asked about the rat problem, and quick to remind us of the lease terms. When we’ve pushed too hard, he’s shown he won’t hesitate to start eviction talks. That power imbalance keeps us cautious, biting down on our frustrations instead of airing them.
Over the past few months, the rat sightings have increased. First, it was a single glimpse in a corner—we ignored it. Then scraps disappeared from the counters, and noises filled the nights. My wife started buying traps, and I took to knocking holes in the walls to catch movement. I even tried confronting the landlord, but he shrugged off the issue as petty.
Our conversations, once easy and filled with hope, have turned into tense nods and clipped words. Last week, the tension boiled over into a cold silence after one particularly long day. We’re both walking on eggshells now, avoiding the topic entirely.
Tomorrow, the landlord is visiting the apartment for a routine inspection. I haven’t mentioned the rat problem again, and I’m dreading his response. I know he expects the place to look perfect, free of complaints. Meanwhile, tensions at home feel like they might snap under the strain.
The rat, small and hungry, is still out there somewhere, and so are all the things we’re avoiding talking about. The silence before that visit is heavy, like the worst is just about to come.
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