And I make it work.
Or I suppose Idid.
Until it stopped working for me.
Charles told me I wasn’t wife material on a Tuesday.Calm voice.Soft hands.Like he was explaining weather patterns.
“Your job already has your loyalty,” he said.“It’s not a bad thing.It’s just…not what I want.”
So I did what I always do when someone gives me data.I evaluated it.
Maybe he was right.Maybe I was too dispersed.Too reactive.Too everywhere.So I did what any rational person would do—I narrowed the focus.
At work, I pitched a restructure.It wasn’t a tantrum.Or a meltdown, as some have put it.It was a clean proposal.Smaller roster.Fewer clients.Better margins.Less noise.
I suggested we be more intentional.Strategic,which was a word my male counterparts always seemed to love.
They stared at me like I’d suggested we burn the building down.
Then HR got involved.Then my boss suggested I take a “leave.”Then they fired me and pretended it was mutual.
Which told me everything I needed to know.
People don’t like it when you stop performing the version of yourself they benefit from.
So I took my client list.Another thing on a long list I still have to sort out—winning them over, that is—and I skipped town.I bought a house.Not a compromise house.A project.Something big enough to prove a point.
If I can manage actors, agents, contracts, egos, and crisis calls at three in the morning—I can manage a man.And a house.And a reset.
Distance and time fixes things.Everyone knows that.You just have to commit to it.And I am.Out here, where people don’t notice what you’re unloading.Where you can park a trailer in your own damn yard and no one asks what’s inside.
Of course, Charles didn’t want to come.
That’s why I didn’t ask.
He’s here.And I’m making it work.
And now I’ve got a man on the porch with too much time and a good set of ears, standing between me and the rest of the day.
“You’ve been helpful,” I say, with the kind of finality that should send him moving.I even smile.It’s not real, but it passes inspection.“I appreciate that.”
He gives me that slow nod again, like he’s trying to read something behind my face.
There’s nothing there.
Just a woman who needs to shut the door.
“But I’ll let you get back to your work,” I add, before he finds another reason to stay.“Thanks, again.”
I try to close the door, not hard enough to slam but firm enough to end the conversation.
He’s served his purpose.
The door doesn’t close.
He has one boot angled forward, catching just enough of the threshold to keep it open.
I look at him.He’s not done.
