Was it asking too much to just be informed, consulted about prospective plans, or rather his plans, the ones he continually plotted for himself.? Millie didn’t think so. After all, it was she who would have to make all the arrangements. She’d be the one left to manage, sort, clear, clean, and toss all the bits and pieces accumulated over the few years they lived one place or the other. Forced to move every few years she lived like an Army brat. Their holdings were limited. They didn’t possess any proper heirlooms from a distant relative or for that matter a near one, like her grandmother Theresa, who probably wouldn’t live much longer at age ninety-seven. They owned just sticks of furniture gathered randomly from thrift stores, garage sales, online marked down sales, damaged goods, cast-offs from other people’s lives they were willing to claim as their own, for a while, at any rate. Then she’d be the one to make the haul to the next destination. She’d be the one to do all the packing up, even loading the car, or directing the moving men. All her husband did was pack his golf clubs and pay the tab. This was the bane of their marriage: pack up, more out. It was an endless saga
Joe was always carting them off here and there. Locally or cross-country they traipsed, never to any exotic places like Bali, Fuji, or the south of France, even the West Indies would be a pleasant change. Millie dreamt about making a world tour someday, going to out-of-the-way places. She kept hoping just one fine day her dreams would come true. But so far that day hadn’t arrived, nor yet. Millie believed in hope. Hope was her chalice for survival against monotony and disappointment.