It’s Monday morning as I sit in the office, downing my double shot latte and feeling a sense of achievement at how well Chris and I managed to avoid each other yesterday. He was asleep not long after the boys’ bedtime; clearly still recovering from his night with Anya. Therefore, we are still to finish that heated conversation, and the prospect of its continuance daunts me in much the same way as my bi-annual pap smear.
Part of me knows that Chris is right. I did choose to build the agency beyond what it was meant to be and this is the result. But should a woman lose her ambition just because she has children? Men can continue their careers uninterrupted, but we can’t? Taking a break would be professional suicide. Public relations isn’t an industry that welcomes Mums back after maternity leave because the landscape is changing constantly. Even a two-week holiday is difficult to recover from.
I head out early for my weekly meeting with a boutique management agency, leaving the receptionist and three PR consultants to continue work on their assigned clients as well as the Saxon Jones scandal, and decide to pop in to my sister’s house to pick her brains for ways to settle marital disputes. Dash actually spends time with her husband and so is more likely to have regular arguments.
“I’m back here, Juliette, doing the washing,” she calls out from the rear of the house, which is similar to ours because it was built around the same time. Like most capital cities, inner-city housing is similar: small, cramped and driveway-less.
Upon entering the laundry I am thrown into a state of shock.
“Oh my God! Have you opened a Chinese laundry? How can one family own so many clothes?” I ask.
“No more than most others, it’s just that the plebs of society, a.k.a me, don’t have a housekeeper to do it all for us, unlike you. This…” Dash waves her hand around the clothes like a game show hostess, “is how real women live, Jules.”
Dash tells me she is constantly drowning in a sea of mismatched socks, holey undies and fraying towels, but has resigned herself to the fact that there will never be a paid housekeeper based on Joe’s earnings from his concreting business.
“Glamorous isn’t it? How are you?” she asks.
“Good, just thought I’d drop by and…” I remove a pair of small pink undies from the peep toe of my stiletto as though they contain a deadly pathogen.
“Help with the housework? Oh, Juliette, how kind of you, especially considering how important you are.”
“Yeah, well you know, would if I could, but I just… don’t want to.”
“You don’t look yourself today. You’re a bit scraggy. Are you OK?” Dash surveys me with a knowing eye.
“Scraggy? Are you serious?” My compact mirror doesn’t lie and I discover, with horror, that the look of the day isn’t as polished as usual, but ‘scraggy’ is a bit over the top.
“Do you want me to be honest or nice?” she asks.
“Nice please.”
“OK, that shade of pallor really works well against that pastel pink top you’re wearing, and the black hollows under your eyes match your bag perfectly. And your hair, I had no idea straw was so fashionable. Haven’t you had your weekly facial-transplant-thingie yet?”
“You know, you’d never last a day in PR with that mouth,” I say.
“I’d never last a day in PR because the dipshits you work for would drive me to physical violence.”
“So surgically removing butternut pumpkins from the rectums of patients is preferable to PR?” I ask.
“He fell over while doing the gardening and it’s not my place to question what consenting adults do behind closed doors,” she says.
“Fell over? It was peeled, for God’s sake.”
We both burst out laughing.
“It took me eight months to be able to eat butternut pumpkin after that. I still can’t go near eggplants,” she says.
Dash is a nurse and does two shifts a week in the emergency surgical theatre of the general hospital. She always has gory stories to tell of people who insert an oddment of items up either rectal or vaginal cavities. And I thought my clients were weird.
“Besides, you said you’d give me the flattering version. You can’t over-promise and under-deliver like that; it’s crippling to my vanity.”
“That was the flattering version, Juliette. What’s up, and don’t give me that PR shit you spin for everyone else. It’s my duty to be brutal with you, to make up for the fake world you float around in all day,” she says, folding a very pink, girly dress and placing it on top of another pile.
Dash’s honesty is refreshing at times but not necessarily all the time. My lifestyle holds no appeal for her. Elbow-deep in cookie dough or bodies in need of life saving surgery is her idea of heaven. If Chris is my conscience, Dash is the moral compass.
We move into the kitchen for a latte, me taking my usual place at the table while Dash whizzes around like a spinning top. The fridge is overrun with crayon drawings and photos of the kids. Post-it Notes are stuck to her calendar because she’s run out of writing space with all the activities and events the kids are involved in. The entire house is a very homely, comforting kind of chaos.
“It’s Chris. We had part of a huge argument yesterday, about me working too much,” I say.
“Hmmm…What happened, tell me.” Dash hands over a cup of coffee and a homemade banana muffin, cut in half and spread with butter, just the way she serves them up to her children.
“Chris thinks that I work too much and that it’s having a negative effect on our family.”
Dash pulls that face again, the one where she fights unsuccessfully with her eyeballs not to roll back into her head,.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say.
“Juliette, I don’t want to get on your case about this, because God knows that’s already been done to death, but he does have a point, my sweet.”
“What do you mean he has a point? He knew about my career aspirations when we married. Besides, he asked Anya out in front of me, as though he were a single man.”
“Whoa, hang on. One thing at a time. Yes, you were open about your career aspirations, that’s true. Perhaps he thought that expelling two children from your uterus would mellow you a bit. But this is who you are and nothing on this earth is going to change that.” She must feel the heat from my death stare and adds quickly, “because you’re a special little Muppet and we all love you and accept you the way you are. Anyway, who’s Anya?”
I explain the events of the previous Saturday night, after which Dash shakes her head and tutts in a motherly manner.
“I’m sure there was nothing in it, Juliette. Chris would never cheat on you. Besides, women chasing married men is a bit Hollywood, isn’t it?”
“Can you hear yourself? I think you’ve been married to Iti Joe and living in the Mummy-bubble too long. Anya wants my husband.”
Dash takes a long, deep breath and says, “I will ignore the Iti Joe and bubble bit for the sake of sisterly love, this time. Don’t make the mistake of hanging shit on my life again though, got it?”
“Sorry, I’m a bit worked up,” I say, twirling my hair around my finger.
“What time did he get home?” she asks.
“Ten-thirty the next morning.”
“Ooh, so they were really together all night?” She cringes. It’s the same look a man gets on his face when he sees another man get hit in the groin. “Do you trust Chris?”
“Around her, not really.”
“Why don’t you give Chris the time he’s asking for then? If he’s not feeling so neglected, Anya will hold less attraction.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s not that easy though.”
She tutts and does the eyeball rolling thing again. “Jules…”
“If Chris would just be patient, he’d see that this is only temporary…” She’s lost the fight with those eyeballs; there they go, rolling backwards as though she’s trying to read the calendar on the wall behind her without turning around. “…and that I’m only temporarily ruining our family.” Once again, my sense of humour falls flat.
“Well, maybe in his eyes you are ruining your family. There are always at least two sides to every story. He wants you all to be together, like a normal family. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be your first priority.”
“Have you two talked about this?”
“Chris mentioned it at Joe’s birthday last month.”
“Joe’s birthday? I don’t remember that.”
“That’s because you weren’t there, some client was having a ‘PR emergency’. Chris brought the kids. We talked, no big deal,” she shrugs.
“So why are you taking his side? You’re my sister.”
“First of all Juliette, calm down, OK? I can see where he’s coming from, that’s all. His demands aren’t unrealistic. He’s hardly asking you to be barefoot and pregnant constantly.”
“What, like you?” Oh shit! Please don’t tell me I said that out loud. The atmosphere of the room changes instantly; icy winds from the Arctic Circle blow through the kitchen. Dash’s reaction to my last remark will be swift and harsh.
She looks at me with the look of a mother telepathically scolding her child. You know the look; we have all either seen it from our own mother or delivered it to our children. It’s where you purse your lips, furrow your brows together, tilt your head to the side, clench your teeth and squint like Dirty Harry. She better not pull a Magnum out of her apron pocket. I brace for impact.
Dash comes close and bends down to my level, where she points a savage finger at my chest, “I have a real family Juliette. I’m not off working day and night to fulfill my own dreams to the detriment of my family and marriage,” she says. She then turns her thumb towards her own chest as she continues, “I value my family. I put my heart and soul into my children because they deserve me being the best Mum possible. My Joe is not only the best father imaginable, but as a husband he exceeds my wildest dreams every day. Maybe I don’t drive an expensive car, wear posh clothes, or get my hair and face fixed every four weeks, or whatever the Hell it is you do that makes you so important, but my family loves me, they know me and I am the heart of this home, not some shitty nanny or housekeeper.”
Fuck! Who needs an expensive facial when you can get your face ripped off for free by an irate sister? Dash’s message has not only been understood but is now firmly wedged in-between the right and left hemispheres of my brain, driven in by her sledgehammer touch.
“I told you not to poke shit at my family again. Next time I’ll kick your undernourished little arse out of this house, understand?” Unable to tear her glare away, Dash watches me shift uncomfortably in the chair. I think I just peed my pants.
“I’m really sorry Dash, that’s not my opinion of you, you know that. I’ve always been a bit jealous of your ability to be everything to everyone. It’s pretty clear who got Mum’s genes.”
“Don’t say that Jules. Mum’s issues weren’t with motherhood. She had other forces working against her. You just need to see things differently.”
We’ll just have to agree to disagree on that matter, because that boat has long sailed.
“What did Chris say?” I ask.
“Just that he was getting sick of you always working, and that it was hard on the kids. He also mentioned it at Ava’s fifth birthday party two months ago”.
“I don’t remember that one either. Oh, wait a minute, that was at the indoor play centre, wasn’t it?” I say, feeling chuffed because not only can I remember it but am able to tell Dash where it was too.
“No, the indoor play centre party was for Isabel’s seventh birthday. You were there, although only for the last thirty minutes of it. You missed Ava’s party because you were entertaining a potential client.”
“Oh. Is this being written down to use as evidence against me or something, marking it on your calendar when I miss a family event?”
“No, I only record the ones you attend. They take up much less space on my calendar than your non-attendances, late attendances or early departures. Which reminds me, you have made provision in your busy life for Ethan’s school concert, haven’t you? You cannot, under any circumstances, miss that.”
“It’s all sorted.”
“Chris does have a point, Juliette. You have to acknowledge that.”
“But I can do it all. I have a nanny and a housekeeper…”
“Who are spending more time with your family than you are. Is that what you really want?”
“But my kids are learning good values; that hard work will bring success and reward.”
“Juliette, they are just little kids. That may work with teenagers, but think about it from their perspective. They have a mother who is never home. A nanny who attends all the school activities. A lovely, older housekeeper who prepares yummy food for them and makes them eat their vegetables. They have a lonely father who is desperately trying to make up the shortfall of you not being there because you put other people, strangers, before them. What you are showing them is absence and lack of interest. Is that the legacy you want to leave for your children; that they just aren’t important?”
When she puts it like that I could bury myself in shame. My body deflates like a punctured tyre. Is that really what’s happening? It’s certainly not my intention.
“I love my kids, I love my husband, but I love my work too. Why is there a constant need to choose? Aren’t I a positive role model?” I ask.
“Of course you are,” she softens and sits next to me, taking my hand in hers. “You adore your children and they adore you. But in order to be a role model, and a positive one at that, you need to be present, active, participating in their lives every day — every chance you get. Not in-between media emergencies.”
“Hmmmm…” I say, because she’s right — as usual.
“So, what’s the plan for Chris and this Onion chick?” she asks.
“Anya,” I laugh.
“Yeah, her. What’s the attraction?”
“Other than regularly being mistaken for Miranda Kerr’s older sister, being the perfect earth mother and a seemingly all-round nice person?”
Dash’s eyes pop and her eyebrows disappear under her dark blonde fringe.
“Yeah, apart from all that,” she says, waving her hand dismissively.
“You tell me and we’ll both know.”
The alarm on my mobile bleeps, telling me it is time to go to the meeting. I shove the last of the banana muffin into my mouth, brush the crumbs off my top and stand to hug Dash.
“Juliette,” Dash says, “will you think about it? Please. I can’t appreciate the stress you’re under with work, because my day is a different type of hectic; balancing shifts, school and sports runs can be maniacal at times. My demands are different. Sometimes I wish that my life was more glamorous, like yours. I’d love to be able to visit the hairdresser and beautician regularly. Hell, I’d just be happy with a lunch hour and being able to go to the toilet without an audience. Please, think about it. It’s your family, your marriage.”
“Would you really trade your life for mine?”
Dash smiles warmly and without hesitation answers, “Not in a million. There’s something wonderful about this chaos; if it’s not the patients in theatre, it’s the kids and Joe. This is exactly where I want to be at this time in my life, even with the snotty noses and butternut pumpkins. But if you ever feel the need to offload a facial or two, just give me a call; I’m always happy to help out.”
Diego’s Café on Lygon Street is my usual lunch-and-caffeine revival stop. It’s nestled amongst the multitude of Italian restaurants that Lygon St is so famous for, and caters to locals rather than the tourists who flock the well-known strip in the hope of spotting an underworld figure or celebrity. It’s a short stroll from my office, and has become my little haven away from the pandemonium. The terracotta-coloured walls and the stone and wood décor reflect an earthiness uncommon in the inner city. It relaxes me. Grounds me.
My usual table, tucked behind an Aztec-style partition, is the perfect location for a quiet, private meeting because it’s obscured from the view of other diners, yet lets the breeze through in summer and is directly underneath the outdoor heater in winter. Perfect.
What’s going on? Chris and I are happy, aren’t we? Or is Dash right? Is Chris lonely? Was I supposed to mellow and lose my ambition when motherhood came along?
I knew within two months of meeting Chris at uni that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. Everything was just so natural between us. There was never the need to pretend to be someone else, to play a role with him, and for the first time in my life, other than with Dash, it was OK just to be me. The thing that attracted me most was his consistency; no ups and downs with Chris. He was always calm, supportive, loving. Nothing has changed there. If anything, his journey into fatherhood has made me love him even more. He’s a poster boy for fatherhood. I know that my sons are going to grow up to be wonderful, kind, compassionate, strong men because of the role model they have in him.
Compare that with my upbringing, where my mother had her own special kind of love for Dash and myself. It was a “be a good girl and fill Mum’s wine glass up again, will you?” kind of love. The kind that varies depending on where she was in the cask of wine, or ‘Chateau de Collapsible’ as we called her special sanctuary. Not an ideal training ground for future mothers, although Dash came out relatively unscathed.
I love my husband. There is no one else for me. The thought of anyone else touching me or making love to me makes my skin crawl. There’s no way I am going to let Anya take him away from me, and his children.
With the Saxon Jones car crash scandal in recovery mode, for the first time in five years I leave work early to go home and talk it out with Chris. On the way home I stop off at the bakery at the top of our street and buy Chris his favorite sweet, caramel slice. If I were a better wife I’d make it for him, but the kitchen is not a place that is familiar to me, with the exception of the coffee machine.
Our house was built in the time prior to a need for a driveway, and so each night we do battle with our neighbours and their visitors to get a park in the street. This afternoon, I am taking it as a positive sign that there is a vacant spot right outside our house; this is meant to be.
My stomach swirls, which is ridiculous. We had a fight. We’ve had them before, we’ll probably have them again. But this time there’s so much more at stake and the she-devil is close on my Louboutin heels. I open the gate and walk the two metres of path to the front door. My heart thumps as the door creaks open, and Chris emerges from his office, mobile phone to his ear.
“Yes, me too. I’m really looking forward to working together. I think we’re on the same page designwise, so it will be interesting to see what we come up with,” he says into the phone.
A white tissue serves as the equivalent to a white flag as I wave it in front of my face, showing surrender. Chris looks at me and nods, raising a hand with his fingers outstretched. He wants five minutes.
I nod back and move into the kitchen to make us a coffee.
“I know, I can’t figure out why we didn’t do this before,” he says. “I’ve actually got a couple of clients lined up who could do with your services.”
The smile on his face tells me that this is a worthwhile client or associate, perhaps one he’s worked with before. All the tension from yesterday seems to have left his body as he wanders around the house with his phone. This is a good sign.
I take the coffees out into the backyard and place them on the table, then go back inside for the caramel slice.
“You do? OK, let’s get together then. How about lunch tomorrow?” he says. Then he lets out one of his flirty, sexy laughs, the one he usually gives me…so…who’s he talking to? It would probably be good manners to wait outside for him, but now I’m intrigued as to who is on the other end of the phone.
“The awards dinner? Are you going too? Great. No, Jules has never been to one, too busy working.”
Now he’s running his hand through his hair, like a calendar model. His smile is huge, all of his perfectly white, straight teeth are showing and those sexy crinkles are back on his lightly tanned face. It’s a shame he’s wearing clothes.
“Together? Sure. Why not? OK, well, I’ll see you tomorrow at twelve and we’ll talk about the awards dinner then. Great, OK. See you Anya.”
Anya? ANYA? Awards dinner, lunch tomorrow? What the fuck is she doing? No, no, no, no, NO! My heart is about to throw itself out of my chest, like the alien did to Sigourney Weaver in that film. An overwhelming urge to chuck a tantrum like a two-year-old is rising to the surface and isn’t responding to calls of calm and serenity as I fight with my own facial muscles to engage them in a smile for Chris’s benefit.
“Hi,” I say. My voice is wobbly as it crackles out of my mouth.
“Hi,” he says, putting his phone back on the table.
“I…ummm…bought you some caramel slice. It’s your favorite.” I place the bag in front of him.
“Yes, it is,” he says looking at it. “Thanks.”
The lightheartedness from his phone call has vanished. There’s no more dragging his hand through his hair, no more smiles or crinkles. No more flirty laughs.
“I thought we should talk about, well, you know, what’s happening between us,” I say.
He nods, “That’s a good idea. There are things we need to sort out, Juliette.”
He’s clearly angry at me, otherwise he’d be calling me Jules or sweetie. This is going to be a tough sell. My heart is pounding so loudly he must be able to hear it and my gut has turned inside-out, not just at the thought of him spending time with Anya, but at how happy he was to be talking with her.
“I’ve made the coffees. They’re outside,” I point through the window as if he doesn’t know where ‘outside’ is. Dumb.
He nods again and holds the door open for me. We sit down and look at each other. Should we start with general chit-chat or just launch straight in?
“I meant what I said, Juliette. This whole arrangement isn’t working for me anymore. It isn’t working for our sons either. Your work is overwhelming everything.”
His directness catches me off guard.
“Oh…um…but it’s just work, Chris. Plenty of other Mums work long hours too, doctors, nurses…”
“Most other mothers find a balance between work and home, or change their priorities when they have a family,” he says.
“What, so I should just give up my dreams and career ambitions because I’m a Mum? Isn’t that a bit archaic? Haven’t we moved beyond that mentality?” The defensive, liberated hackles rise.
“That’s not what I mean and you know it. Name a time when I haven’t supported your ambitions,” he says.
He’s right. Again. He’s always supported me, always. My lungs force all of the air out, and it’s now I can feel just how tense my body is. My jaw is clenched and my shoulders have moved up to my earlobes. Relax. Calm down. Talk this through as if he is a client.
“Ever since we met you’ve had this drive to prove yourself over and over again —university, work, your business. You work yourself beyond what any human is capable of and it’s just not necessary.” It’s clear that he wants to let it all out, unburden himself of everything he has probably wanted to tell me for years, but hasn’t, so I bite my tongue and allow him to finish. “Part of being successful is knowing when to sit back and enjoy it, when to stop. What’s the point of working so hard if you keel over from a stroke? I want you to be Juliette Wilde, PR diva, less often and Mrs Juliette Taylor, wife and mother, more often. It’s not asking too much, is it?”
What can I say to that? It’s not about changing my name, it’s about changing who I am, my goals, my aspirations.
“You want me to give up my work?” I ask.
“No. I just want you to work less. I want you to be a participant in our family life, because at the moment, it’s all happening without you.”
“No it’s not! I’m here.” My usually non-existent temper is rising.
He reclines in his chair, arms crossed.
“Name the last time you were home for dinner two nights in a row,” he says.
My mind blurs, thrown into chaos at his question.
“I…err…”
“Can’t you remember back that far? I can. It was before Christmas, last year. That’s over two months ago. Two months!”
“I…ahhh…” Am completely lost for words. Two months? That can’t be right, surely?
“In the last two months Cal has started setting the table and take his dirty cup and bowl to the sink. Ethan has started doing the wash-up, and even helps to prepare dinner and his lunch box for the next day. But you wouldn’t know any of that because you are never here.”
The sudden onset of guilt is a killer. It feels like a ten-inch blade has been plunged directly into my heart. Two months?
“I…had no idea it had been that long.” Tears spring to my eyes, prickling like little burrs.
“If I really wanted to make you feel bad, I’d give you the stats on how long it’s been since you were home for a full day on the weekend. Do you realise that we have never had a family holiday since you opened the agency? Not even a weekend away together.”
The tears hurtle down my cheeks, leaving my eyes stinging and hot. Chris softens and moves forward in his chair so that he can put his hand on top of mine.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper and sniff.
“Jules, do you really want to be here?”
His question slaps me across the face.
“What?” I ask.
“Here, in this family. With me. Do you want to be here? Because if you don’t, then I think now’s your opportunity to tell me,” he says.
“What?” My brain goes into shock. His face is troubled, pained.
“If this isn’t where you want to be anymore,” he says as his voice begins to waver, “if being here no longer make you happy…then, I love you enough to let you go.”
The tear-shedding amplifies and soon my cheeks are saturated as my lip quivers.
“Of course I do,” I snivel, “how could you even ask that?” Then it hits me. “What role does Anya play in all of this, Chris?” It’s out before I even know it and its suddenness takes us both by surprise as his face drops.
Chris lets go of my hand, pushes his chair away from the table and stands up.
“I beg your pardon? Anya? Just what are you suggesting, Juliette?”
I don’t know! I don’t know what I’m suggesting. I’m scared that you will want her instead of me because she’s everything that you want in a wife and mother. Everything you deserve. But it’s too late, the words are just rolling out now.
“I said, what about Anya? We were perfectly happy before she came along, and now suddenly, our marriage is on the rocks. That was her on the phone before, wasn’t it? You’re lunching with her? Working with her? Going to the design awards with her?” My heart is now thumping a million miles an hour. There’s every chance it will thump out its lifetime’s worth of beats during this conversation and I will drop dead on the floor afterwards.
“This has nothing to do with Anya,” he says. “This is about us, about you, about your work.” He stares at me with an intensity that has never bothered his gentle face before.
“Really? So Anya plays no part in how you’re feeling now, because all you do is compare me to her — earth mother of the decade — which leaves me flailing by comparison. Look at her; she’s perfection, flaunting herself in your face. Flirting with you, touching you, she can’t keep away from you and now you’re playing right into her trap.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” he says, his voice full of confusion.
His face says it all. The rounded eyes, raised eyebrows, his palms facing upwards in front of him. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know that she’s after him. He has no clue that she wants him because…because he’s a gentleman who would never cheat on his wife, no matter how much she neglects him.
“You don’t see it, do you? She wants you, how can you not see that?”
He shakes his head, “I don’t care what Anya wants. I care what you want. What do you want, Juliette?”
“I want you, Chris. I want our family. I want my dreams and goals. I want everything. I need everything. Work makes me important,” I blurt.
“You’re even more important here, to our sons. To me, Jules.” He shakes his head slightly. “This what I was saying before about you having to prove yourself all the time. You need to sort that out — we need to sort that out, together.”
Silence, except for my heart, which is now beating just for him. My head nods by itself as he wipes the tears away from my eyes.
“Here’s what I want,” as he counts them off on his fingers. “You to be home for dinner five nights a week, home for at least one day per weekend, to turn your phone off after six, to only work on the computer two nights a week. Can you do that? Do you want to do that?” he says, moving closer to me.
I nod and whisper, “Yes. I do.”
“Is this a promise you will keep?”
“Yes. Yes I will.” Although, how is another question, but right now, I would peel my own skin off for him. “Chris, why do you still love me? If I’m such a mess, why do you still want me?”
He takes me in his arms and my body melts into his. It’s as though he has a special energy that envelops me and makes everything alright. The feel of his hands on the small of my back, the scent of his skin takes me into a world where it’s just the two of us. Where everything is alright.
“Because I know the real you. I understand why you feel the need to work so hard, even if you don’t. But understanding it and liking it are two different things.” He cups my face in his broad hands and I gaze into his eyes, “I love you, Jules, and we can have the happiest life together if you’ll let it happen.”
I feel so loved, so lucky.
“If you could go back in time and marry someone else, would you?” I ask.
He smiles, and at this moment he looks as handsome as I’ve ever seen him.
“I wouldn’t change a thing, except for your work hours. Would you?”
“Marrying you was the best thing I’ve ever done. I’m sorry if it doesn’t always come across that way. I’m a work in progress.”
“We all are, Jules. Life is too short not to enjoy. Soon our boys will be grown-up and this precious time will have passed. You would never forgive yourself if you missed it because you were too busy working.”
He’s right, again.
“Lucy and Cal won’t be home until after school,” his suggestion is an aphrodisiac in itself. “That gives us two hours. How about we make it count,” he says, as his sexy smile and crinkles make a reappearance.
He picks me up like a bride and takes me into our bedroom before placing me down again in front of him. I fumble with the buttons on his shirt, and on his pants, although he has no trouble removing my dress and underwear. The last time we did this was…too long ago to remember.
Like newlyweds, we make slow, tender, passionate love, which reawakens every feeling of pure love I have for this man and reopens all the guilt associated with being a neglectful wife and mother. My promise to him is real; keeping it will be the hard part.