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You told me I should get a job. I ought to. You are stressed, you’ve confessed. Stress. I was supposed to be helping with that.

At least I’m helping with the kids. I don’t fling them at you, hot plates of tantrums, each time you come home. Except, that’s exactly what I do. Each time you come home.

I don’t call you at work, their sirens in the background, soaking you with guilt for leaving me Alone with Them. Your sons. Maybe I do. But does it help that I jump into guilt soup the second I hang up? Of course it doesn’t.

Another thing that doesn’t happen is eating out. Not just because I can’t control them while we eat. Sometimes, it’s because I cook. Unless it’s one of those times when I haven’t gotten the groceries. Or when I’ve forgotten to start the dishwasher the night before. Or when biryani sounds better than last week’s leftover daal.

You may choose to focus on the omnipresent film of dust on every surface in the house. Or wonder how the smooth hardwood has mutated into a sticky swamp. But then, you’d be ignoring my enviable toy sorting skills that I fine-tune several times a day. Yes, you would be envious.

And no, we don’t need to have that conversation anymore. We don’t need a nanny. Or a cleaning service. Or a cook. No, we don’t need any of them. We are fine.

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