When I got pregnant, we both agreed we wanted someone home full time. It made sense. But it also meant Logan had to work harder than ever, managing my responsibilities on top of his own while learning how to be a new dad.
That’s why he hired Mackie in the first place.
The last thing either of us wanted was a repeat of 2024. The worst year for the business and our marriage.
God even thinking about that time makes me shudder.
Buzzing from my watch brings me out of the dark place my thoughts went, time to pick up the kids.
With one last glance at Logan, I turn and walk out of the room.
Our house is a modest three-bedroom, single floor place. It’s not fancy like the others around us. Most of the homes here have guest houses or detached studios. We have a yard instead.
It’s perfect for the four of us.
The grass is worn thin in spots from little feet and plastic toys. There’s a swing set Logan installed himself, crooked but sturdy, and a garden I keep meaning to take better care of. It’s nothing impressive, but it’s ours.
We’re in a gated community, which matters to Logan more than he’ll ever admit. Knowing the gates lock at night helps him breathe easier when he’s away. It lets him leave for long trips without worrying quite so much.
And I feel safe too.
Safe letting the kids play outside. Safe watching them chase the dogs barefoot across the lawn.
I hold on to that feeling as I step outside, because lately it feels like something I might need to remember how to protect.
At school pickup, I wait with a group of women I’ve come to think of as more friends than strangers. We’re all in the same boat. Former careers traded in for sippy cups and snack schedules, raising babies with men who barely see us anymore.
It all feels very 1950s.
We stand around complaining about our husbands, even though we know they’re doing the best they can. Long hours. The quiet pressure of being the provider. None of us truly resent them, but sometimes understanding doesn’t make the loneliness hurt any less.
I’d hoped to help mine.
The day Logan told me he’d poached his competitor’s manager was the same day I planned to suggest going back to work. Maybe that’s why I was so stiff when I met her.
There’s just something about her.
Or maybe it’s me projecting my own feelings onto her. I’ve been holding in this secret for so long, that even an innocent dinner makes me suspicious.
Behind us, a bell rings and little feet rush out all at once. No matter how many lines they form or how much order the teachers try to bring, the end of the school day is always the same.
A miniature rave.
Tired kids running on sugar and the promise of freedom.
Myles, my five-year-old, is the first to reach me, followed closely by his little brother, River. They both throw themselves into my arms, and I can’t help but hold them tight, already dreading the day I’m told to wait in the car instead.
“Hi, Mommy,” they say together, before immediately launching into separate stories.
I nod along, doing my best to keep up, but the plots get tangled in their rush to be the first one to finish. I smile anyway, because their excitement is contagious even when it makes no sense.
I finally go with the safest response I know.
“No way.”
They beam.
Laughing, I usher them toward the car, their voices still overlapping as the afternoon sun warms our backs.
