I thought staying home with our children was a sacrifice my husband understood and respected. By the end of one dinner, I knew I had been wrong, and I was finally ready to say something about it.
The laundry basket sat between my knees at 11:30 on a Monday night. I was matching tiny socks by the glow of the hallway light. Down the hall, my husband Daniel’s suitcase zippers hummed open and shut in short, efficient bursts.
Somewhere upstairs, my son Blake muttered something in his sleep, and I froze, waiting to see if he’d settle.
He did. I kept folding.
We had four kids. Sylvia was eight now, Lucas six, Patrick four, and Blake almost two.
My son Blake muttered something in his sleep.
My days ran on a schedule I could recite in my sleep because most nights I basically did.
I hadn’t always folded laundry at around midnight. Four years ago, I was running campaigns at a marketing firm downtown, the kind of job where people asked my opinion and wrote it down.
Then Blake came, and Daniel started in with the pitch.
I was running campaigns.
“Stay at home with the kids just for a few years, Mer,” my husband had said, sitting on the edge of our bed with that hopeful, earnest look. “Let me focus on my career. It’ll be better for all of us.”
“But I love my job, Dan.”
“I know you do. And you can go back. Two years, maybe three. Let me get this next promotion locked in.”
I remember hesitating. I remember him taking my hand.
“But I love my job.”
“We’re a team,” Daniel had said. “This is a team decision.”
I said yes. And for four years, I meant it.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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