At forty-five years old and eight months pregnant, I was sitting on the nursery floor trying to assemble a crib when my husband, Evan, packed his bags.
At first, I thought he was only angry. Exhausted, maybe. We had seven children — Margot, George, Mary, Marcus, Phoebe, Elliot, and Sophie — and another baby on the way. Our home was loud, imperfect, full of needs, voices, laundry, school papers, meals, arguments, hugs, and all the daily weight of family life…. Continue Reading ⬇️
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