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in return. I crossed my fingers that because it had been so long since we’d last made love, it would be over quickly. If it wasn’t, I barely managed to hide my relief when Charlie interrupted us, crying out from his crib in the other room. I extricated my body from my husband’s and slipped into my bathrobe.
    Each time this would happen, Martin rolled over onto his back, arm thrown over his forehead. “He’s
fine
!” he insisted.
    “He is not fine,” I said. “He’s crying.”
    “You need to let him cry it out,” he said, propping himself up on his elbows. “He needs to learn to comfort himself back to sleep.”
    The fleshy kickstand of his erection stuck out at an odd angle from his body. It was a sight that used to arouse. Since having Charlie, it simply made me tired; yet another task I needed to check off my to-do list.
    “According to who?” I asked, heading toward the door. “Your mother?”
    Even in the dark, I felt the leaden weight of his eyes on my back as I walked out of the room. When I returned to bed after nursing our son and settling him back to sleep in his crib, Martin was most always already asleep. Or at least, he was good at pretending.
    During the day, when Martin was at work and Charlie still slept better than he did at night, I tried to get back in the habit of writing. It took longer than I thought it would, but when Charlie was eight months old, I sold an article to a local consumer parenting magazine. I recounted what it was like trying to figure out what my baby’s cries meant, and how frustrating it was that my breasts were the only pacifier he’d use. It was more of an essay than the fact-driven, journalistic style I was used to at the paper, but I enjoyed writing it, and felt enormous satisfaction signing the back of the nominal check the magazine sent upon publication. I set a goal to finish at least five articles a month, which often meant working feverishly a few hours late at night after Charlie was asleep.
    “We don’t need the money,” Martin said. “I don’t know why you think you have to work so hard.”
    “It’s not about needing the money,” I told him. “It’s about retaining my sense of self.”
    Luckily, my experience at the
Herald
translated easily into my attempts at freelancing. I knew my queries to editors needed to be specific and attention-grabbing; several years spent penning headlines came in handy for that. It wasn’t “The Best Way to Potty Training Your Child,” but “Potty Train Your Child in Two Days!” Not “An Interview with the Chef at the Space Needle,” but “Local Chef Spills All!” I kept a notebook of topics that interested me, ranging from child rearing to profile pieces on local celebrities. I didn’t want to put myself in a niche, the way I had at the paper, where I only covered lifestyle subjects, so I kept my eye on the news for controversial issues and tried to jot down ideas for story angles that I might be able to sell. I ended up in a niche anyway, focusing for the most part on parenting and relationships, with a few interviews and how-to career articles thrown in. I wasn’t making enough money to support myself the way I had at the paper, but I sold enough work to avoid feeling that I had been completely swallowed by motherhood.
    Then came the sweltering August evening when Charlie was about a year old. It was nearly eight o’clock and Martin was just making it home. I was so busy that day taking care of Charlie and furiously writing during his naps, I hadn’t managed to shower. Martin strode through the front door, brushed his lips against my cheek, and handed me a brochure for a gun-metal gray, two-seater BMW.
    “Is this where you’ve been?” I asked, looking at the picture of the sleek vehicle. We sat at the table in our kitchen. Charlie was next to us in his high chair, up to his elbows in a before-bedtime snack of cottage cheese and diced peaches. I attempted to convince my child to use a spoon, but he