Newton’s mornings always seemed calm from the outside; a suburb where the manicured gardens stretched along the silent streets, and the SUV stood at the entrances as signs of stability.
But inside our white house in the colonial style, my mornings seemed like a total mess, mixed with caffeine and guilt.
My name is Emily Hartwell, and I spent nearly a decade building my career at an advertising agency in Boston before I had my daughter, Olivia.
Returning to work when it was only three months was like I was going back to a moving device that would never rest, but this time I carry with me the invisible weight of motherhood.
That morning, sunlight snuck through the transparent curtains when you bent over Olivia’s bed and raised it to my arms, inhaling the smell of her warm, powder-like skin.
Since I became a mother, I’ve learned that there are little moments that seem almost fanciful, but they have more meaning than any show I’ve ever made in a conference room.
From the kitchen below, I could smell the coffee as it was prepared.
Michael had dressed for work when she came down, adjusting his tie as he watched financial news, and stood straight and calm in the way she had ever made me feel safe in the past.
He said good morning, without looking at me more than a second.
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