again or find part-time work, Richard would smile and say, “Margaret, be realistic. Who would look after the children?”
Sometimes he would add, “You’ve got enough on your plate already.”
The implication was always the same: my ambitions were impractical, while his were necessary.
I stopped arguing.
It seemed easier to convince myself that I had chosen this life freely than to admit how many choices I had quietly surrendered.
Then, when I was fifty-three, Richard began talking about another baby.
We already had ten children. Some were adults, some
