He Flipped the Table Over an Egg

All because of a single egg, my husband, Eric Johnson, flew into a rage, flipped the table, and pinned me to the floor. The children I’d once guarded with my life just sat there, eating in silence, not even looking my way. I endured Eric’s outburst without a word. After cleaning up, I handed him a set of divorce papers with bruised hands: “Let’s get divorced. I’ll walk away with nothing.”

“Why don’t I have an egg?”

At dinner, Eric slapped the table hard, scowling as he snapped at me.

I was stunned.

He’s never liked eggs.

Why bring it up today?

I patted my nephew’s head, telling the child not to be nervous or afraid.

Smiling, I explained to Eric, “You never eat eggs, so I give them to the kids. I made your favorites—shrimp and abalone. If you want eggs, I can boil one now.”

He’s mildly allergic to eggs; usually, he won’t go near them, and seeing one on his plate used to set him off.

His temper tonight came out of nowhere.

Still, I didn’t think much of it.

After his career took off, Eric’s temper got worse.

I tried to understand—work dinners, stress, the exhaustion of social obligations. Home should be a warm harbor, I told myself, so I swallowed every slight and smiled while he vented.

“What’s with that attitude?”

But this time was different. After my explanation, Eric slammed the table again and sprang to his feet like an enraged tiger, eyes locked on me.

I froze, startled by his sudden move.

The two kids just kept eating and drinking as if nothing had happened.

My nephew, though, was trembling.

“What’s wrong? Rough day at work? Let’s go talk in the bedroom—don’t scare the kids.”

Back when Eric and I had nothing, we worked around the clock, but life still felt simple. He never raised his voice at me. He’d look guilty and say, “Sophia Miller, I’m sorry. It’s my fault I couldn’t give you a proper wedding or a happy life. But don’t worry—I’ll work hard and give you a better life soon.”

I’d always laugh and say, “Idiot. Having you with me is the best life I could ask for.”

Later, I turned down a promotion so Eric could have the opportunity, and I stayed home to run the household and raise the kids.

Eric had been moved to tears back then, gripping my hand tightly. “Thank you, Sophia. I’ll remember your goodness for the rest of my life. I’ll never forget.”

Only a few short years later, Eric had a measure of success and, yes, our life improved—but his temper swelled with it. In his eyes, I couldn’t do anything right.

Any tiny disappointment turned into a stream of insults.

His catchphrase became: “This family only exists because of my hard work. You’re nothing but a glorified nanny!”

He’d always apologize afterward and beg me to forgive him. I’d pretend nothing happened. He never understood: wounds don’t disappear; they only get covered up.

I sighed.

I steadied myself and smiled at Eric. “I’m sorry. I slipped up today. Give me another chance—I won’t make the same mistake.”

He doesn’t even eat eggs. He was just looking for an excuse to lash out. I figured something at work must have gone wrong again.