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“Why are you telling me this?”

“To show you what can happen if you don’t stand up for yourself. When I liked a boy, I did whatever they wanted. I gave up who I was, and the boys didn’t respect me. I don’t want you to make the same mistake.”

“I get it, but I’m not you,” she said.

“I know, I’m just giving you some advice.”

“I don’t need advice.” I thought that when Gia became a teenager, I’d share my experiences with her, and she’d learn from them and avoid getting hurt the way I did. Finally, I was getting the chance, and she didn’t want to hear it. “So what if I let him pick the movie. You let Dad pick the restaurants we go to,” she said.

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Why not?”

I tried to come up with a good answer, but I didn’t have one. Was I still pushing my own opinions down for a man, even if it was my husband? “Let’s go.” I walked toward the exit.

Gia was still holding the expensive shirt. “Wait, don’t I get my shirt?”

I looked at the long line to buy one expensive shirt that I never should’ve said I’d think about buying to begin with. “No.”

On the drive home, she was quiet. I wasn’t sure if she was angrier about the shirt or my opening my mouth about Jason. When I saw Jim pulling into our driveway, I was bugged because he knew I liked to park there. Maybe I’d bring it up later.

Jim got out of the car, juggling his briefcase and an expanding folder of files. Gia jumped out of the car and ran to the front door, leaving behind all four bags from our shopping excursion. I balanced them in one arm and took Jim’s jacket from him in the other while he unlocked the front door. It amazed me how many packages I could hold since I’d become a wife and mother. As soon as we walked in the house, Gia reached in the bags and took out her shirts, then ran upstairs, leaving the bags in my hands. Jim dropped his files and briefcase on the counter, opened the refrigerator, and took out an apple. I went to give him a kiss, and he was kind enough to swallow first. Sometimes when he came home, I felt like a dog waiting for its belly to be rubbed, only its owner was too tired to notice.

“How was your day?” I asked.

“Not great. I don’t think anyone could be more exhausted than I am.”

“I took Gia clothes shopping.”

“You win,” he said.

Jim and I had been together for what seemed like a lifetime. Ellen and her husband, Sam, had been determined to fix me up, because Ellen hadn’t liked any of the men I’d dated. I hated blind dates, but she kept insisting this would be different, that I’d like Jim. She said if I didn’t, she was going to date him, so I better go out with Jim to save her marriage. I told her I wanted to wait a couple weeks to meet him until the pimple on my chin went away. The following Saturday night I was dateless, so I went to pick up Chinese food, but the restaurant was running fifteen minutes behind on take-out orders. A man in a navy suit and a red tie walked toward the take-out counter. He moved in his suit like a man who was happier in jeans. He confessed years later that he’d been wearing a suit because all his jeans were dirty, and he didn’t feel like doing laundry. As people will do when they’re bored and hungry, we struck up a conversation. The next thing I knew, we were talking about more than how much we both liked kung pao chicken. I learned he was getting his PhD in psychology, and I told him about my job in publishing. He made me feel as though everything I said was interesting, something no man since my father had been able to do. When our food was finally ready, I was disappointed he hadn’t asked for my phone number. When we finally got together, he told me he had kicked himself all the way home for being such an imbecile. I liked to bring it up on every anniversary.

Two weeks after talking to this man at the Chinese restaurant, I agreed to go out with Ellen and Sam’s friend Jim. As I sat at the table waiting for him, I was so nervous I twirled my aquamarine ring on my pinky finger around and around until there were scratches on my skin. At least my pimple was gone. I looked up to see the hostess walking toward me, followed by the kung pao guy. Almost two decades have passed, and that man was in my kitchen looking put together and messy all at the same time. He had on a pair of khaki pants and an untucked white button-down shirt. No more suit and tie. I missed that suit and tie.

He tossed his half-eaten apple into the trash and opened the refrigerator again for turkey slices and string cheese. “It’s almost dinnertime,” I said.

“I’ll be hungry. I’m a growing boy.”

“Why don’t we order Chinese? We could get some kung pao chicken.”

“That stuff’s too spicy, it doesn’t agree with me anymore.” We had become one of those boring couples where nothing was exciting. It was sad. And even sadder that I thought kung pao chicken was going to liven things up. Where was the husband who used to want to try a different ethnic food every week? Was I now going to have to settle for plain chicken and boiled potatoes?

“Did you call the plumber for the upstairs toilet?” he asked as he sifted through the mail.

“Yes, he’s going to get back to me. I also went to the bank and picked up your prescription from the pharmacy.”

“Thanks. Let me know when dinner’s ready.” A moment later I heard the buzz of the national news coming from the television.

I made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for dinner, my go-to when I didn’t feel like cooking. When the three of us sat down at the table, Gia talked incessantly about some YouTube star she idolized. Jim and I barely got a word in edgewise.

As I dipped the last bite of my sandwich in my soup, I noticed our entryway was dark. Jim still hadn’t changed the light bulb, even though I’d asked him three times over the last few days. I didn’t want to hear another excuse about him doing it later, so after dinner I went to the garage to get a light bulb. The garage would have had the perfect amount of storage if we’d only kept the things we needed. Instead, there was junk falling out of every cabinet, and more junk on the floor. A white plastic bin in the corner was stuffed with all my high school mementos. The yearbook from my senior year was nestled between my prom picture and the tickets to the homecoming game. The yearbook had a few ripped pages from being crammed among so much other forgotten junk. I hoped the ripped pages weren’t the ones with the beautiful inscription from that boy I had a crush on my senior year. I wish I could remember his name. Next to the yearbook stood a small trophy for best female performance in my high school’s rendition ofXanadu. Where would I be today if I hadn’t given up those Broadway dreams and skating lessons?

I still hadn’t found the light bulbs when I saw my notebooks from when I first started working at the publishing company fresh out of college. I sat down on the dirty concrete floor and started to go through them. I found my notes from books I had liked that I had recommended to editors. I was proud that some of them had gone on to be best sellers. I’d been good at that job. I looked around at the garage that was filled with my life, the life I seemed to have lost. I wished I could go back to the publishing industry after all these years.

“Hey, what’re you doing in here?” Jim asked as he came into the garage.

“Looking for a light bulb for the entry hall,” I said without turning my head toward him.