She looked up from her desk.
“Why are you asking my permission?”
“Because we’re married.”
“Marriage does not mean I own your time.”
“Will you be angry if I work?”
“No. I might even respect you more for it.”
Her answer caught me off guard.
I found a job with a small logistics company, using some of the experience I had gained during my earlier employment. The salary was modest, but the work was honest, and I was earning money I had actually worked for.
I also began sending part of my income to my mother.
For the first time in months, I felt a little pride.
Margaret and I continued living under the same roof, but our relationship changed. We no longer pretended that our marriage was romantic. We spoke politely, attended certain events together when necessary, and maintained separate routines.
Sometimes we argued.
Sometimes we had surprisingly thoughtful conversations.
