Before that, I handled breakfast, lunches, shoes, permission slips, and school drop-off for nine-year-old Sasha and seven-year-old Nicki.
I’d slipped on wet tile outside a grocery store and broken my leg badly.
Harold never called those things my responsibility. He simply became busy at exactly the right moments until they were.
My mother drove in twice, our neighbor helped three mornings, and I paid for a car service once while the other parent in my house refused to drive them.
Harold never called those things my responsibility.
Every time I asked Harold, he said the same thing: he “couldn’t be late for work.”
If I pushed him, he’d repeat it. “Scarlett, I can’t be late for work.”
Then came my hospital appointment.
I took a taxi because Linda had already agreed to drive the girls.
“Scarlett, I can’t be late for work.”
The doctor checked my leg, told me healing looked good, and warned me not to get overconfident.
