Gretchen in Baltimore plays the game of chicken like this: “One night I did what my husband often does to me. I told him I wouldn’t be there in the morning, and he’d have to get the kids ready, then drive them to different schools, including our daughter’s preschool, which doesn’t open until nine, thus making him late, like I am every day. He looked at me like I was crazy. Exhaled loudly. Said nothing. Of course, I felt guilty. I got on the phone and found a friend’s house where he could drop our preschooler off.” I didn’t bother with a follow-up question. I, too, am a woman living with a man.
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