I opened the folder to the first page, and for the first time all evening, he stopped talking.
He was still holding his phone.
His jacket was already on.
In his mind, he had been leaving for the game thirty seconds earlier.
Now he looked from the folder to me.
“What is this?”
I pulled out the chair across from me.
“Sit down.”
He frowned.
“I told them I’m coming.”
“I know.”
That was exactly why I had chosen that moment.
For years, his plans had arrived as announcements.
A game.
Coaching.
Boating with his dad.
A new project.
Extra hours for the driving school he was building on top of teaching high school PE.
Individually, every choice could be defended.
He worked hard.
He cared about his students.
He wanted the driving school to succeed.
Spending time with his father was not wrong.
Going to a game was not wrong.
Playing a video game was not wrong.
The problem was that none of those activities happened in empty space.
Every hour he claimed had to come from somewhere.
Usually, it came from me.
He remained standing.
“Can we do this later?”
“No.”
My voice surprised even me.
It wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t angry.
I had been angry many times before, usually when I was so exhausted that the anger came out mixed with tears and half-finished sentences.
This was different.
I turned the first page toward him.
I had made a simple weekly calendar.
Nothing dramatic.
No accusations.
Just blocks of time.
His teaching hours.
His driving school hours.
Coaching commitments when they happened.
Evenings he had gone out.
Weekends he had gone boating with his dad.
Hours he had spent gaming while I was still handling children, meals, baths, cleanup, or daycare preparation.
Beside those blocks, I had written what I had been doing.
Watching our children.
Running the home daycare.
Preparing food.
Cleaning.
Handling appointments.
Doing laundry.
Getting children to sleep.
Getting up again when they woke.
