Reflections on Identity
The Diminishing Value of a Stay-Home Mother After Divorce
My monetary worth on the open market
I hate to run, but today, I run. I am angry, the kind of anger that can make a person smash plates or scream with primal rage, and I have nowhere to release it save the ground beneath my feet. I haven’t run since the pandemic forced the closing of gyms and I took to running laps around Washington Square Park, dodging jumpy dogs on too-long leashes and panting into my cotton mask. Now, I lace up my sneakers and set off along a road lined with rambling shingled houses. I jog slowly, testing my legs out to see how fresh the batteries are, passing buxom women wearing hot pink tank tops, couples riding side by side with wind-blown babies strapped into seats in the back.
I jog by a young woman struggling with two children. She appears aggrieved, holding a scooter steady for a toddler boy while his older sister scoots away down the street. Her pale face is flushed, droplets of sweat forming along her hairline where pale yellow hair is swept into a messy ponytail. She frowns down at the boy and then at the girl in the street, her eyes flicking back and forth. I wonder if she is an inexperienced nanny or an exhausted mom.
