I stand at the sink and resume rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher.
The children aren’t little anymore. Finn sees what’s happening, and I’m both proud and a little ashamed that he does—that he sees me as a doormat and wants me to do something about it.
Mikaela’s confused, caught between what she feels and what she’s been taught to feel. She’s growing up in a world that tells her she can be anything—a scientist, an artist, a CEO—but somehow, even in our house, the message gets twisted. She hears people praise her father’s work as if it’s sacred, while mine is just what I do to fill the hours.
She’s starting to think that’s normal. She asks me to pick her up and drop her off, never Rhys. Part of it is practical—he rarely does—but another part, I worry, runs deeper. She already believes her father’s time is more valuable than mine, that his work matters more than mine does, that he’s allowed to be busy in a way I’m not.
Is she learning that a man’s busyness is ambition, but a woman’s is neglect?
I despise that quiet double standard, even as I live with it. I’ve tried so hard to show my children otherwise—to show both of them that work is work, that worth isn’t measured by the size of a paycheck or the letters after a name.
Finn gets it, I think.
My son has seen me juggle a thousand things at once and never call itsacrifice.
He’s watched Rhys forget, and he’s watched me remember.
He understands thatimportantdoesn’t always mean visible.
But Mikaela is still learning. And I’m terrified that if I don’t do something soon, she’ll grow up believing what I did—that love means supporting someone else’s dream at the expense of your own.
CHAPTER 2
Rhys
Itake a shower, scrubbing off the day—the smell of disinfectant, the hospital cafeteria coffee, the ghost of a patient’s blood still clinging to my wrists.
The water’s hot enough to sting, but it doesn’t wash off the guilt.
I fucking forgot to pick up Finn.
My sixteen-year-old son, standing out in the cold for half an hour.
Guilt settles heavy in my chest.
But this isn’t my lane.Is it?
Jayne handles that part of our life—the calendars, the reminders, the pickups and drop-offs.
She asked me last week to cover soccer because she had a major trial at her firm. I said yes. I meant it. But I forgot to put it on my calendar. I was going to, but then something came up. I can’t even remember what.
Maybe a consult. Maybe rounds.
Or maybe you just didn’t think it mattered enough to remember?
That thought twists in my gut.
The truth is, I’ve come to expect Jayne to handle the small things. And not because I think I’m better than her. It’s just that she’s always been the one who keeps the machine running. She’s good at it. I’m good at other things.
Life-saving things.
I lean my head against the shower tile. Water hits the back of my neck, pounding like a reprimand.
I should have called.
But the thing is, I was in surgery. I wasn’t lying when I said that.
A seventy-three-year-old man came in with an aortic dissection. I can still see his chest open under the lights, his heart exposed, fragile and fierce. When you’re in that moment, holding someone’s life in your hands, nothing else exists. Not your wife, not your kids, not the clock.
