In all the years we’d been married, I’d always shared with Vivian exactly what I’d earned. To me, sharing such information was a prerequisite of marriage; the last thing any couple should harbor was financial secrecy. Secrecy could be corrosive, and ultimately stemmed from a desire to control. Or maybe, I was being too hard on her. Maybe it was simply she hadn’t wanted to hurt my feelings because she’d be earning an income while my own business was floundering.

I couldn’t figure it out. Meanwhile, I’d been handed the responsibility for our daughter, and all at once, the real reason for my insomnia seemed all too obvious.

Our roles in the marriage had suddenly been reversed.

CHAPTER 6

Mr. Mom

When I was young, my parents would load the camper and bring Marge and me to the Outer Banks every summer. Early on, we stayed near Rodanthe; later we stayed farther north, near the area where the Wright brothers made aviation history. But as we grew older, Ocracoke became our spot.

Ocracoke isn’t much more than a village, but compared to Rodanthe, it was a metropolis, with shops that served ice cream and pizza by the slice. Marge and I spent hours roaming the beaches and the shops, collecting seashells and lounging in the sun. In the evenings, my mom would make dinner, usually burgers or hot dogs. Afterward, we’d capture fireflies in mason jars before finally falling asleep in a tent while our parents slept in the camper, stars filling the nighttime sky.

Good times. Some of the best in my life. Of course, my dad recalls them differently.

“I hated those family trips,” he confessed to me when I was in college. “You and Marge would fight like cats and dogs on the whole drive down. You’d get sunburned on the first day and you’d whine like a baby the rest of the week. Marge would spend most of the week sulking because she wasn’t with her friends, and if that wasn’t bad enough, as soon as your skin began to peel, you’d throw the remains at Marge to make her scream. You two were a total pain in the ass.”

“Then why did you bring us every year?”

“Because your mother made me. I would have rather gone on vacation.”

“We were on vacation.”

“No,” he said, “we were on a family trip, not a vacation.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

For the first three years of London’s life, trips out of town required D-Day–like preparations, diapers and bottles and strollers; snacks and baby shampoo, entire bags packed with toys to amuse her. While out of town, we visited places that we thought she would enjoy – the aquarium, McDonald’s playgrounds, the beach – running ourselves ragged, with little time to ourselves and even less time to relax.

Two weeks before London’s fourth birthday, however, Peters sent me to Miami for a conference, and I decided to use a few vacation days after it ended. I made arrangements for my parents to take care London for four days, and while Vivian had initially been hesitant to leave our daughter, it didn’t take long for both of us to understand how much we’d simply missed being… free. We read magazines and books by the pool, sipped piña coladas, and took naps in the afternoon. We got dressed up for dinner, lingered over glasses of wine, and made love every single day, sometimes more than once. One night we went to a nightclub and danced until well after midnight, sleeping in the next day. By the time we returned to Charlotte, I finally understood what my dad had meant.

Kids, he meant, changed everything.

It would have been more appropriate, I suppose, if it had been Friday the thirteenth, instead of Monday the thirteenth since everything about Vivian’s first day of work seemed off somehow.

For starters, Vivian hopped in the shower first, which threw off a morning schedule that had been years in the making. Unsure what to do, I made the bed and went to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. While it brewed, I decided to make Vivian a breakfast including egg whites, along with berries and slices of cantaloupe. I made the same for myself, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to drop a few pounds. My pants, I’d noticed, were beginning to nip at my waist.

While I was cooking, London joined me in the kitchen and I poured her a bowl of cereal. Her hair was puffed up and messy, and even I could see that she was tired.

“Did you sleep okay?” I asked.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sprinkles kept waking me up. They kept getting on the wheel and it squeaks.”

“That’s not good. I’ll see if I can make it stop squeaking, okay?”

She nodded as I poured my first cup of coffee. It wasn’t until I was on my third cup that Vivian finally made it to the kitchen. I did a double take.

“Whoa.” I smiled.

“You like?”

“You look fantastic,” I said, meaning it. “I made you breakfast.”

“I don’t know how much I can eat. I’m so nervous, I’m not hungry.”

I reheated the egg whites in the microwave while Vivian sat with London, listening as London told her about the noisy wheel.

“I told her I’d see if I can make it quieter,” I said, bringing the plates to the table.

Vivian began to nibble at her food while I sat. “You’ll need to use the detangling spray on London’s hair this morning before you brush it. It’s next to the sink, in the green bottle.”

“No problem,” I said, vaguely remembering that I’d seen Vivian do it before. I scooped a forkful of eggs.

She turned her attention to London. “And your dad is going to sign you up for tennis camp today. You’re going to love it.”