My husband mocked me for buying our son a $2 pink stroller. I thought he was embarrassed because it was a “girl’s toy.” Then our six-year-old said one name I’d never heard before.
For eight years, I had been the easy wife.
Greg made the big decisions; I handled the house and our six-year-old son, Leo, and whenever we disagreed, I usually let it go.
You buy every piece of junk you see.
I told myself I was choosing peace. Greg seemed to think it meant he was always right.
That Saturday morning, the three of us walked to a neighborhood yard sale a few blocks from our house. I wasn’t looking for anything. Leo was.
The stroller was two dollars, and I paid Marla, the woman running the yard sale, in quarters I dug out of the bottom of my purse.
Leo had circled the pink stroller for ten minutes, one hand gripping the handle. Inside sat a baby doll with a smudged cheek and one missing sock.
