official job title.
Now he was reading evidence of my competence in a language he understood: professional results.
But I didn’t feel triumphant.
I felt tired.
I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life proving to my husband that I deserved basic respect.
He placed the paper on the table.
“Margaret,” he said quietly, “I was wrong about you.”
I nodded.
“Yes, you were.”
He looked as though he had expected me to reassure him.
When I didn’t, his eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t know when I
