And it seemed fine. Stephen and I could relax about money, and all we missed were two weeks of our honeymoon. When I went to work in the morning, Stephen was still in bed, and during the day he said he read and went for walks. He did the grocery shopping and when I got home from work at night he had dinner ready. It might have been a loving time if I had not been so tired; but every day I met new people, was kind and courteous and efficient, and every night I was exhausted. I changed, he said. I was distracted and he didn’t like it; my thoughts were always on the next day, going back to that store to be kind and courteous and efficient, and he lost part of me to that and resented it. In my turn I was angry with his resentment, his pressure on me to be something I couldn’t, at that moment, be; and underneath it all, although I never said it, were the words, “but I’m doing this for you, if I didn’t have to support you I wouldn’t be like this, what right have you to complain?” When I came home at night, tired, he would want to go to a movie, or for a walk, or to visit friends, and I would refuse because I was tired and wanted to brood about the next day. We fell apart those two weeks, and we must both have wondered, I know I did, if we should have put ourselves in this position.

But things evened out when Stephen went back to school. We shopped and did laundry together, but I took over the cooking, and I think it wasn’t an unfair arrangement, really. We developed routines, duties, Stephen’s energy for things outside school dropped and we were contented. We would both read in the evenings, he his school books, me my novels, and we could feel close and comfortable without having to talk. My job still drained me, and Stephen’s courses worried him, but we had each other to turn to, and we became each other’s refuge against the outside. We were careful to follow my mother’s advice against having children.

I remember wondering sometimes if I ever did want to have children, although I knew of course I would, for the assumption of my life was always there, more rooted than any doubts. And yet it seemed then that things were comfortable as they were, and I was afraid of change. Children would be abrupt, would take so much concentration, so much love, and I felt weak and frightened. But I never mentioned it to Stephen, for I had to doubt the doubts. The whole vision of my life said they must be wrong. If I spoke of doubts, would it not seem odd and terrible?