Anna did not move.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked.
“You really want to stand in a crowded room and answer the same question fifty times?” I asked.
“Which question?” she asked.
“The one about what you do,” I said.
The kitchen went quiet, except for the bubbling of the pasta water.
Anna did not answer immediately.
“What is wrong with what I do?” she asked, her voice dropping a register.
I shrugged, picking up my phone again to check a work notification.
“Nothing is wrong with it, Anna,” I said.
“But let us be realistic for a second,” I added.
“Most of your classmates are going to be talking about law partnerships, medical residencies, and corporate promotions.”
I gestured toward the living room, where toys were scattered across the rug.
“You will be telling them about potty training, laundry schedules, and grocery lists,” I said.
I thought I was just being practical.
I thought I was saving her from an awkward evening of feeling out of place.
“It is just a lot of money and effort for you to go there and have nothing to talk about,” I said.
I did not look at her face when I said it.
I was already looking back at my work emails.
“Nothing to talk about,” she repeated.
Her voice was very flat.
“You know what I mean,” I said, typing a quick reply to my manager.
“I just do not see the point in trying to compete with a room full of professionals.”
The sound of the wooden spoon hitting the ceramic spoon rest was loud.
I looked up from my screen.
Anna was standing perfectly still.
Her hands were planted on the edge of the sink, and her knuckles were white.
The small smile was entirely gone from her face.
“A housewife,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
