Some envied me.
They had no idea that the version of him they loved existed mostly when someone was watching.
At home, fatherhood looked very different.
After our third child was born, Richard convinced me to leave the career I had spent years building.
“The kids need you,” he told me.
“I’ll take care of everything financially.”
At the time, it sounded like teamwork.
I believed him because marriage was supposed to mean trusting the person beside you.
So I became the person who remembered everything.
Lunches.
Dentist appointments.
Permission slips.
Uniforms.
Homework.
Fevers.
Birthdays.
School projects.
Allergies.
Best friends.
Favorite foods.
Which child hated tomatoes.
Which one needed the hallway light left on.
Which teacher required forms in blue ink instead of black.
By the time we had six children, my entire life was organized around details no one else seemed to notice.
Richard handled gifts.
Expensive ones.
New tablets.
Sneakers.
Bikes.
Concert tickets.
He liked the moment when the wrapping paper came off.
He liked hearing the children shout.
He liked saying:
“Make sure you tell people Dad got you that.”
Everyone laughed.
Usually, I did too.
It was easier than explaining that the man buying the shoes often had no idea what size the child wore.
Richard was rarely home for ordinary things.
He missed stomach bugs.
Reading practice.
Teacher emails.
Parent portals.
He missed the nights someone couldn’t sleep.
He missed the mornings when three children needed three different things at exactly the same time.
He missed ordinary Tuesdays.
The children eventually stopped asking whether he would be home for dinner.
