After Lucy was born, I left my accounting career, because Vincent insisted our daughter needed a parent home full-time — daycare cost too much, he said, and strangers couldn’t raise her the way we could.

So I packed away my office clothes, turned down a promotion, and arranged the whole household around his schedule.

I made his lunches. I paid the bills from the kitchen table. I tracked the school paperwork and the dentist appointments and every small expense he never noticed.

I went to every parent-teacher conference alone, because his work always came first.

Somewhere along the way the money stopped feeling like ours. He called it his paycheck, though my unpaid work was what made his career possible.

He questioned every grocery receipt while buying whatever he wanted for himself.