Chapter 7 - The New Math
We sat on the wooden bench in my mother’s front yard for over an hour while the morning traffic slowly built up on the boulevard behind us.
Derek didn't try to pull me into the car. He didn't make grand promises about how everything would magically change or how he would suddenly become a Pinterest-perfect father overnight. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together, staring at the gravel path between his feet.
“Your sister sent me the schedule,” he said quietly, his voice hollow.
“And?”
“It’s brutal.”
“It’s a fifty-fifty split of what I’ve been doing solo for five months,” I replied, my tone level. “With a fractured arm on top of it. You did it for fourteen hours, Derek. I’ve done it for four thousand three hundred and eighty hours.”
He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. “I couldn't even work yesterday afternoon. I missed the Tokyo call.”
“I know.”
“My boss asked me what happened to my presentation. I told him I had a family emergency.”
“Did you?”
He looked up, meeting my eyes for the first time. The arrogance that had defined our marriage—the quiet, unexamined assumption that his time was capital and mine was overhead—was completely gone, replaced by a raw, shell-shocked humility.
“Yes,” he said softly. “It was the biggest emergency of my life.”
We walked back to our house together, side by side, neither of us rushing.
When we opened the front door, the smell hit us immediately—a rich, complex mixture of sour milk, wet wipes, warm laundry detergent, and the unmistakable, sweet scent of two baby heads waking up from their morning cycle.
The kitchen was still a mess. The yellow envelope still sat on the island. The formula powder was still dusted across the counter like powdered sugar on a battlefield.
Derek looked at the mess, then looked over at me, his expression cautious.
“Where do we start?” he asked.
I walked over to the counter, picked up the sponge with my right hand, and placed it directly into his palm.
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“You start with the bottles,” I said. “And I’ll go upstairs and get the boys.”
He didn't sigh. He didn't check his watch. He didn't mention his job, his stress, or his right-handedness. He just turned on the hot water tap, rolled up his sleeves, and went to work.
