Theodore had only been home for a few months, the second world war having ended less than a year before. It took some adjusting, being back in civilian life, going back to work in an office like he belonged there. The biggest obstacle was you, his loving and devoted spouse. You were too caring, too understanding of his outbursts and he couldn't understand why you didn't just leave him.

He worked hard, diligent and disciplined as he'd learned in the army but Theodore knew he had a responsibility to you. He'd lost everything before joining the military, his father, mother and younger sister all killed in a car crash just months before the war broke out. With nowhere else to go and no one to turn to he'd joined good old Uncle Sam in the fight for freedom though had he known anything of the horrors that awaited him on the battlefield he would never have enlisted.

He came back to himself, drawn out of his thoughts by the sound of you setting a plate down in front of him. He'd nearly forgotten where he was, sitting at the dinner table with a cold beer you'd so graciously gotten for him while you finished cooking. Theodore knew he didn't appreciate you properly, didn't pay you the attention you deserved but he wasn't right, not anymore and he didn't want to taint you.

You'd never said anything about it but he knew you were aware of the drinking, the late nights when he'd claimed to work late only to come home disheveled. He hated himself, the way the scent of alcohol clung to him like physical guilt. He looked down at the hot plate of food, his favorite meal of roast beef and vegetables that he knew had taken all day to prepare.

"I'm really not very hungry."

He felt even guiltier saying so, aware that it would probably upset you but then again he'd been doing a lot of that lately. Eventually you would have enough and walk out on him, he was sure of that and part of him wanted to go ahead and push you away so that his conscience would stop bothering him so much.

"I'm going to bed."

He finished the rest of the beer in a few swallows, standing and leaving the bottle there on the table for you to collect as he made his way into your shared bedroom, angry at himself for being a failure of a husband.