Steven didn’t let up. He opened his textbook from that goddamned AP class—Religious Nuttership 101 or whatever they called it—and started reading. “‘Woman has no call to the ballot-box, but she has a sphere of her own, of amazing responsibility and importance. She is the divinely appointed guardian of the home. . . . She should more fully realize that her position as wife and mother, and angel of the home, is the holiest, most responsible, and queenlike assigned to mortals; and dismiss all ambition for anything higher, as there is nothing else here so high for mortals.’ That’s Reverend John Milton Williams. See? You’re queenlike.”

“Terrific.” I needed the coffee but didn’t want Steven to see how on edge I was, so I left it on the counter. “I think you should drop this course.”

“No way. I’m kinda into it. I mean, there’s a crap ton to think about. Even a few of the girls say so.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I said, not bothering to take the snideness out of my voice.

“Julia King, for instance.”

“Julia King isn’t exactly representative of the entire female population.” Poor kid, I thought, wondering what my next-door neighbors had done to brainwash their daughter. “Really, Steven. Drop the course.”

“No.”

Fifteen years old. The age of defiance. I knew it well, having been there.

Patrick came into the kitchen, emptied the coffeepot into a mug, and stirred in the last of the half-and-half. “What’s going on?” he said, tousling Steven’s hair and then pecking me on the cheek. “Kinda early for a domestic argument.”

“Mom wants me to drop my AP Religion class.”

“Why?” Patrick said.

“I dunno. Ask her. I think she doesn’t like the textbook.”

“The textbook is shit,” I said.

Patrick picked it up and flipped the pages like they were an old cartoon. “Doesn’t look so bad to me.”

“Maybe if you tried reading it, hon.”

“Come on, babe. Let him take what he wants. It can’t hurt anything.”

I think it might have been that moment when I started hating my husband.

Now I’m back in my living room, hating the seven men seated or standing around me, waiting for me to join their ranks. “I need some details,” I say. Maybe they won’t notice I’m stalling.

Maybe you think I’m crazy for not leaping at the chance to go back to work. I can understand that.

We could use the extra income. There is that. And I’ve missed my research, my books, the collaboration with Lin and my graduate assistants. I’ve missed talking.

Most of all, I’ve missed the hope.

We were so fucking close.