or weeks, I believed my husband was working late while I handled three young kids alone. Once I learned the truth, I made sure he finally understood what those hours cost me.
Looking back, what makes me angriest is that for almost two months, I actually felt sorry for my husband, Johnny, every time he told me he had to work late.
We had three kids under five, so evenings at our house were less a routine and more a survival exercise.
I actually felt sorry.
Someone was always crying, refusing dinner, splashing half the bathwater onto the floor, or suddenly remembering they needed something for preschool the next morning.
By six, I was usually reheating my own dinner for the second time.
By seven, I was negotiating pajamas like a hostage situation.
Johnny would stroll in around eight-thirty, sometimes later, loosen his tie, and give me the same exhausted look.
