And yet, after work, I don’t get to rest. I jump straight into dinner duty, homework help, laundry, bath time, bedtime routines — while Brad, my husband, sinks into the couch with a game controller or his phone, like his job ended the moment he walked through the door.

He says he’s tired. Aren’t we all?

He says I’m “just better at that stuff.” As if nurturing, cooking, soothing tears, folding socks, and remembering school picture day were somehow genetic.