I am still stewing about the question why I’m not working. I worked all through my last pregnancy while Doug started home improvement projects and tried to decide what he wanted to do with his life. He “needed some time off cause he’d worked ever since he was 16.” I worked when I had to throw-up every 20 minutes, when my back felt like someone stuck me with a knife and my feet were so swollen I couldn’t fit in any shoes. Nobody on either side of the family ever asked how I was feeling or cared one lick that I was working and Doug wasn’t. Yet, I am at fault for not running back to work when Doug got fired.

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