I could hardly contain my smug little grin as I burst into my husband's home office. I tossed the latest draft of my essay on his desk, obscuring his computer keyboard. "Read this," I said with false nonchalance. It was good, and I wanted him to tell me so. I'd been working on the piece -- an essay exploring my difficult transition to motherhood -- for months and was finally ready to submit it to an obscure-but-promising literary magazine. This was my first attempt to reshape my before-kids career as a computer book author into more meaningful work as a writer of memoir.
He looked up, his eyes asking if this could wait. Mine answered it could not. He exhaled, and then leaned back in his creaky office chair and began to read. I waited, tapping my foot and peering over his shoulder. He was going to love this.
After what felt like an hour, he turned to face me. I expected a smile or a compliment, but instead, he sighed. His brow wrinkled with what looked like concern. Or was it disapproval?
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