In terms of Tim, I had to make room for the disappointment factor. No doubt the house would be much messier than I’d like. Toys scattered throughout, dishes stacked in the sink, a handful of half-finished activities, all of which pointed to what was becoming abundantly clear: Tim’s basic inability to handle the task. But it wouldn’t help to point this out. What helped me most was to picture worst-case scenarios—the tub overflowing, broken dishes shattered on the checkerboard linoleum, the kitchen on fire. These catastrophic imaginings made it possible for me to accept whatever I found with an easy smile.

Mostly, though, I didn’t want Tim to feel defensive. Without a doubt, he was doing the very best he could. Besides, as his favorite historian says, and I paraphrase: “Most of us suffer from unreal expectations.”

I feared I was guilty of this, too.

“I’m back,” I called out. That day what I found inside made me gasp. The living room/dining room/toy room was immaculate. The hallway, pristine. Everything was in place, and everything that wasn’t in place was in a better place. Teddy once asked me, “Mommy, am I dreaming this?” I had to wonder if I was dreaming.

No one was home. Then I remembered my family was at Angus Strubel’s birthday party.

I went back and found the kitchen spotless. Well, not spotless, but as spotless as our kitchen ever gets. On the table, there were two Scooby-Doo plates that must have held cookies, and two plastic cups half filled with now warm milk.

So maybe the world is going to hell, but not the Welches here on Oak Lane, no, we’re on the way up . . .

That was when I pulled open the door to the boys’ room and saw the costumes. All laid out. Waiting to be worn.

The sound that erupted out of me defied description. Surely our neighbors heard it. Furious, I called over to the Strubels’ and learned that Tim had just left with the boys. Gwen asked if everything was all right. I lied and said, “Yes.” By the time they got home, I had shut the door to our room. Tim found me there, seething, bloodthirsty. He told me to wait, saying he could explain.

I heard him start a bath for the boys. When he opened the door to our room again, he asked first thing, “Is this because of the costumes?”

I glared at him. “That, too.” Then I snapped, something about being disappointed and hurt and that if we didn’t fucking need the money, I’d quit my fucking job right now, which wasn’t exactly true.

Tim said he was sorry.

I said, “What will it be next time?”

He tried to calm me down by claiming the party had been a disaster and the boys hadn’t minded and the costumes were going to be a knockout, best on the block, and if they’d worn them that day, they wouldn’t wear them on Halloween, and then he said, “You see, Kate, sometimes even you are wrong.”