One Sentence Taught Me the Risk of Becoming a Stay-At-Home Mother

But it was too late by the time I read it

I don’t know if I would have believed anyone who told me one sentence could be so powerful. Even if they insisted it would accurately dictate the risk of becoming a stay-at-home mother.

It’s late in the evening and I make my way to bed.

I’m tired but I grab some paperwork.

I prop up a pillow and search for the warmth of my covers. My two old church ladies Hazel and Phyllis snuggle next to me. My chocolate lab Hazel settles at my feet while my yellow lab is pressed against my side.

I rifle through the papers not knowing what to expect.

My insides burn with a mix of shock and anger.

I swipe at tears as the typewritten words jump off their crowded page. It is a disturbingly mesmerizing yet cautionary assembly of words. I am in utter disbelief.

One sentence insists to be read over and over again.

I can’t move beyond it.

There’s no denying the potency of this one-liner.

I know the author. It’s my husband. My best friend, my college sweetheart, my business partner, and the father of my children. He’s the love of my life.

He’s been my steady Eddy.

For the past several decades we have built an enviable life together.

We have three beautiful boys and three beautiful homes. We have more than any two people deserve. We want for nothing. We have the luxury of being self-employed and summers at the Jersey Shore.

We have zero problems.

At least not in the conventional or worrisome sense.

It’s an easy decision to become a stay-at-home mother.

We either need to replace me in our business or in our home. In both cases, we will be required to pay at least one salary. Initially, we can’t afford it. I take our oldest son to work with me until he turns a year old.

After that, I hire a babysitter several days a week and work longer hours.

Ultimately, we grow the business enough to hire someone.

I love everything about being a stay-at-home mother.

It’s my dream job.

I can’t remember loving anything before this. My husband is happy too. I’ve helped expand our business by covering the office and freeing up more time for him to sell. His days are easier with support in the office and at home.

I continue to do some work and business errands to the bank and post office. I pay all of our bills for our home, business, and investment properties.

We’ve hit our stride and this routine works for us.

I do what my husband calls the ‘volunteer version of working.’

I’m busy with my boys and involved in our community. My husband doesn’t have to go in late or come home early. He doesn’t have to miss or reschedule a meeting or get up in the middle of the night.

Again, it’s working for us.

We are happy.

Being a stay-at-home mother is a luxury.

It’s also a luxury for my husband.

There’s no denying it’s mutually beneficial. It definitely lowers my husband’s stress. He has virtually zero demands as a husband and father except for going to work. It also lowers my stress. I’m not being pulled in multiple directions either.

I’m a stay-at-home mom focusing on my contribution.

My husband is focusing on his contribution.

Or so I think.

I’m thinking I and the love of my life, my bestie, my college sweetheart, my business partner, and the father of my children are a team. I think we are contributing jointly to our families in the best way possible or what works best for us.

Our arrangement is equal.

We are both working in different capacities…we are both contributing.

But now I’m staring at one jarring sentence.

My insides burn with a mix of shock and anger. I am in utter disbelief. I am furious. I am outraged. I am incensed. I am demeaned. I am devalued. I am discarded.

By a one-liner written by my husband.

My former best friend, college sweetheart, and the love of my life. At the end of our marriage, our business partnership, and life together his words speak through his divorce interrogatories.

“I have paid for everything over the last 25 years with little help.”

One sentence teaches me the risk of becoming a stay-at-home mother.

I don’t think I would have believed anyone who told me a sentence could so powerfully and accurately dictate the risk of becoming a stay-at-home mother.

Worse, if they had shown it to me I would have scoffed.

I would have said, “Not my guy. Not my bestie, my college sweetheart, and the love of my life. Not my husband, business partner, and father of my children.”

I wouldn’t have stopped there.

“Not the great guy I met in a Catholic college in Scranton, Pennsylvania. He’s too honest and too good a person to do that. He’s got a strong value system. He’s not the kinda guy who would lie, cheat, steal, and leave me with nothing.”

But he did.