Our Origin Story: Part 2
Yes, you read that right: he walked out.
The door slammed so hard that, while I expected it, it still made me jump.
Numbness overtook me as I began cleaning up with robotic efficiency. I put a Veggie Tales video in and shamelessly plopped both kids in front of it. I handed them each a gigantic spiral lollipop that Chris had hidden in a top cabinet behind my roasting pan and a turkey baster.
I loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the counters, and vacuumed the floors. I neatly rolled up Chris’s office floorplans and leaned them in a safe spot. As I cleaned, every so often I would peek over at the kids who were, at this point, covered in a rainbow of sticky lollipop juice. They were wide-eyed and content.
When the countertops and floors were gleaming again, I turned my eyes back to Chris’s floor plans. I was unfurling them and weighing them down with my most iconic cookbooks (Betty Crocker, The Joy of Cooking, Fanny Farmer, and Better Homes and Gardens) when Chris came in.
He crossed the kitchen and we both said, “I’m sorry,” at the same time. He was sorry for getting mad and storming out. I was sorry for letting my impulsivity threaten our family’s future.
I was crying. He was hugging me. As he pulled away, he glanced into the family room. Instead of chastising me for giving the kids TV and candy, he whispered, “Nice.”
Later, after thorough baths, a bedtime story, and two more “just-one-more” stories, we collapsed on the couch.
Chris leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and blew out a long breath. Without looking over at me, he uttered two sentences that completely changed the course of our lives.
“The new office is going to be great, but it’s too big. If only we had one more doctor.”
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