She knew she shouldn’t curse in front of the children. It wasn’t dignified or it was setting a bad example or something. There was undoubtedly some lady-like wisdom about how coarse language made for a coarse person, but she was way beyond caring if she was a coarse person. It was a cut-off notice, three days until payday, oh-shit-the-milk’s-gone-off kind of day and it was twenty minutes to the store and only one of the kids would fit in the stroller so the other one would just whine the whole way. She wasn’t even sure there was enough money in her account for milk and she couldn’t imagine dragging both kids all the way to Needs Convenience and then getting turned down for $4.00 worth of milk. If her phone hadn’t already been cut then she would be able to check her account and know whether the trip was worth it, but the phone had gone last week when there were seven days until payday.

She was sure that a good mother would have rationed her milk better, a good mother would have noticed the date on this carton when she picked it up. Of course, a good mother would have been able to handle the two kids at the grocery store without getting all distracted and just grabbing vaguely food-shaped things off shelves and tossing them in her cart. And a good mother would definitely not be this frustrated at 2 o’clock in the afternoon. Of course, that mother’s children probably still took naps and took them willingly so that mother probably had five minutes to herself before she hopped up and cheerily cleaned the house.

Kristy looked at the pile of clean, unfolded laundry that her children were tossing around the living room, especially at the t-shirt that smeared the dust on the coffee table. She looked at the dished piled by the sink. How many strikes was that on the good mother inventory? Her shoulders dropped at the thought of it. Sure, no one was making an actual list but if they had, she wouldn’t be on it. If she wasn’t on the bad mother list, she was sliding dangerously close. At this point in the day she didn’t even feel like she was parenting, she felt like she was just enduring until bed time, and today she feared she would collapse long before then. There was just too much hard in this whole thing and there was no time for her to catch her breath.

She plunked herself down on the cheerio-littered floor and leaned forward into her hands. She was drawing ragged edges of air into her lungs and willing herself not to give into crying when she felt the first little head lean against hers. His little sister soon followed, working her way in between Kristy’s elbows and burrowing on to her lap. She shifted and took both kids into the circle of her arms, and they snuggled into their Mama while their Mama sobbed into their hair.

“Digging to China again, boys?” Mrs. Hillier leaned on the fence, her wide brimmed hat casting a shadow over her face. The boys didn’t know why grown-ups asked the same questions every time you saw them, but they knew that it was polite to answer as if you hadn’t heard the question before.

Sam gave a reply, but, as usual, he said it too quietly. And, as usual, Ryan repeated Sam’s words loud enough to be heard. “We’re trying but we haven’t gotten there yet.”

“Well, let me know if you get there, I could use a trip.” She gave her usual laugh and went back to her gardening.

“Why doesn’t she dig to China, too, Ryan? She’s got a shovel and good dirt.”

“She’s a grown-up, Sam. Grown-ups won’t try to dig to China, they’re too sensible.” The word sensible fell out of his mouth like it tasted bad and he started in with the shovel again, scraping away at the muddy rocks at the bottom of the hole. It was kind of fun to pry the rocks out, it was one of his favourite parts of digging.

Grown-ups didn’t have any fun as far as he could tell, everything they did had to be part of a big plan. His Dad was always saying that they had a change in plans, or that something wasn’t in the plans. Ryan thought all his Dad’s plans were pretty boring.

The boys had been out digging since early morning and they were pleased with their progress. They were taking turns pulling shovelfuls of dirt out of the bottom and piling it to the side, it was difficult for them to throw the dirt on top now, the pile was getting too high. That wasn’t going to stop them though, once it got high enough, they would get to dig the pile out of place to make more room. The only thing more fun than one pile of dirt was two piles of dirt.

“Does she really think that we can get to China, Ryan? Can we do that?” Sam didn’t just rely on his older brother to amplify his voice, he expected that Ryan would have all the answers he needed. Ryan hadn’t let him down yet.

“I don’t know, Sam. We can dig a big hole though. I just like digging.” Ryan was pretty sure that he couldn’t dig to China. China was really, really far away, even if you dug right through the planet.

“I like digging, too, Ryan. Digging is fun. I like making a big pile of dirt. That’s the best part.” Sam nodded toward the rocks and earth they had dragged from the hole. “I think our pile even has worms in it. I like worms, too.”

Ryan looked through the fence at Mrs. Hillier. She was sitting back on her heels, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand, smiling to herself. She probably wasn’t digging to China, but it seemed like she just liked digging, too. She probably didn’t even mind the worms.

Once I heard the door close behind him that morning, I stood and pulled the spread tight across the span of the bed. I fluffed the pillows and pressed them against the headboard. I took off the red silk nightgown and laid that in the centre, placing the gold necklace on top. I pulled the smallest suitcase down off the third closet shelf. I didn’t know if everything would fit, but that’s the case that I had bought when I went to France with Mom so it seemed fitting to take it.

I went through everything on my side of the closet. Short skirts on the bed, flowing skirts in the suitcase. Low cut shirts on the bed, crew neck in the suitcase. Silver jewelry in the suitcase, gold on the bed.

Everyone says that relationships involve compromise, but I’ve always hated that word. Compromise is one of the words they use in the military when something has gone wrong – their position has been compromised. In space shows, things always take a turn when the hull gets compromised. Our hull didn’t really start with integrity, so compromising it wasn’t hard. It was a matter of one small bad decision after another. Compromise – when neither party gets what they wanted.

Ethan wanted a quiet wife, a helper, someone whose ambition would be about improving his position in life. I wanted a life of my own with a husband who was behind me all the way. We both acted as if we had married the the person we had meant to. I told the world about every small thing he did to support my ambitions, selling the story of a man who was behind me all the way. He bought things for the wife he wished he had – showy clothes to accentuate a figure I didn’t possess, expensive jewelry, fancy cooking implements, tennis lessons, and wine tasting tickets. A compromise, with neither of us getting anything we wanted.

I took books down off the shelves, piling the romances, the fitness books, the cookbooks on the bed, placing the few mystery novels and career guides in the suitcase. I took down the drawings from my brother’s kids, and left the showy art prints on the walls. I took the carved artifacts from my solo trips, and left the elaborate trinkets from our honeymoon. I dragged all the expensive shoes out from the closet floor and threw them on the pile on the bed, my sneakers and hiking boots went in the suitcase. I dressed in my one remaining comfortable pair of jeans and threw on a hooded sweater over my t-shirt and struggled to zip the suitcase. I paused in the doorway and looked at everything remaining in the room, then down at the case full of my treasures. I was okay.

I pulled off my rings and laid them on the pile of unwanted things.

This was not a compromise, this was at least one person being brave enough to get what she wanted.