I had resisted for so long, only to end up here anyway.
She gestures for me to take a seat as she sits behind her mahogany desk.
"So, we spoke a little bit on the phone," Imani says while opening her laptop and typing, manicured nails clacking against the keyboard. "But I want to hear it in person. All the nitty-gritty, even if it's embarrassing. Is that okay?"
I hesitate for only a moment before I nod, folding my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. For the next half hour, I tell her everything, the words tumbling out in a rush I can't quite slow.
By the end of it, I feel bone-tired and hollowed out. Still, I'm proud of myself for not shedding a single tear this time. Maybe they're all dried out, or maybe I'm just so far past the point of sadness that I've finally channeled it into action.
Imani listens intently to my entire story, her gaze steady and unflinching, and so deeply kind and empathetic. She only looks away from my eyes to make a few notes on her laptop, fingers pausing thoughtfully before resuming their quiet tapping.
I'm not sure if it's because I know Imani, or because I desperately need someone to tell me that I'm not crazy for feeling this way—but I end up telling her about Monday morning too. Atlas' dream and what he said during it, and his behavior when he woke up. I tell her about how he completely pulled away before yelling at me.
She looks concerned about that and asks, keeping her voice deliberately soft. “Has he ever yelled at you like that before?”
“Never.”
She nods. "Do you suspect that he's cheating?"
The question lands like a physical blow because I've wondered. I've had nightmares about Atlas finding another woman. I've had thoughts that torture me in quiet moments, convincing me that Atlas has found another woman.
It would make sense, too, with the absence, the lack of interest in sex, the lack of interest in me. I'm the boring, old wife now, the one with stretch marks earned from two pregnancies. He upgraded to a newer, younger, tighter model.
At this point, it doesn't matter anymore.
"Could be..." I shrug, feeling drained and defeated. "I don't even think I want to know at this point. He's not only checked out of this marriage—he's checked out of fatherhood."
"Some men just think fatherhood is a job," Imani scoffs, her voice sharp with a quiet kind of anger. "Something you can clock in and out of. And most of the time, they can. They go to work; they get eight to ten hours a day away from the kids—not that their work is easy, but they do get a break from being a parent. Meanwhile, most women stay home, raising the kids, caring for the home, cooking, cleaning, and managing the endless logistics of family life. And at the end of the day, all they want is a fucking hour of silence."
She shakes her head with a frustrated huff, leaning back in her chair. "Then the husband comes home and thinks, 'I just worked eight hours—I deserve a break.' So they sit. They do nothing. They play video games. They watch television. They don't help with the kids, they don't pick up toys, and they don'toffer to make dinner. Nothing. And they genuinely believe they deserve rest more than mom does, because he makes the money and all she does is stay home with the kids—never realizing that she's working too. Probably harder than them, if we're being real."
I stay silent, letting Imani speak because her words are like gasoline to the fire burning inside of me right now.
"And then on the weekends, when you think that this is the time mom can finally, finally get a break, that dad will be home, and finally, she can have someone there to help—they go golfing, or they go hunting, or they go out with their boys. Because they still think they deserve a break more. And they do. They do deserve a break, but that's the thing—all parents deserve a break. But realistically, when do momsactuallyget one?"
Her words hit harder than I think she realizes, each word sinking deep under my skin. Funny enough, the first real break I've felt in years has been this last week working at Mabel's.
I clock in every day at 8 after I drop off the boys, and I work until 3:15, talking to customers, joking and laughing with them. Stocking shelves, organizing, sweeping the floors, and ringing people out.
Most of it is work I already do every day at home, only this time I get paid for it, and no one expects me to do three other jobs at the same time.
"The worst part," Imani continues, her tone softening but losing none of its conviction, "is that most of these men aren't cruel or evil. It's just... the society we live in. Men get praised endlessly for what women do every single day without so much as a thank you. And women are the ones who put their bodies on the line to bring those children into the world."
Atlas has never been a bad father; he's always been there helping with the boys, but he’s the fun parent. I've always been the primary parent.
I'm the one who stayed home with them while Atlas went to work. Somewhere along the way, I martyred myself, acceptinghelp from Diane but drowning in guilt every time I did.
On my darkest days of early motherhood, Liam would cry in my arms as newborns do, and I would tell myself that I was a shit mother for not inherently knowing what to do for my baby.
Diane had it all together. Why couldn't I?
I never gave myself grace. I told myself Diane probably never struggled, never needed help, never cried in the shower the way I did.
I didn't realize that she most likely had moments like this, too, that she needed her village just as much as I did. You don't see that when you feel like you're failing. I tried to balance as much as I could to prove something—to my mother, to society, and to myself.
Diane helped me so much; she made me the mother I am today. And I like to think, with how Liam and Noah are, that I did well.
When we lived in the apartment, on our own for the first time, Atlas would get home from work, completely exhausted.
