Looking at apartments
It’s exciting to think about moving someplace new. To live close to town. To be able to walk somewhere to get a cup of coffee and read the paper after 10 years.
When I come home, Beth and I do a sullen gavotte around each other. She’s curious about what I’ve found. Wants to know but doesn’t want to ask. I’m excited, and for nearly twenty years I’ve shared my enthusiasms with her. I tell her about the awful things I’ve found out there, and stop. She offers a little advice, and stops.
I say that perhaps she should move out, and I should stay in the house with the boy. She counters that on my salary I couldn’t afford the mortgage. I say nothing.
And there are still errands to run, water filters to change, screens to fix, dishes to wash, and clothes to dry. I’m trying to do my part for domestic equality.
The boy is either blissfully unaware, or terribly resilient.