Adrian did what he always did too: groaned in his sleep and rol ed over for another few minutes’ oblivion. She started to race mental y through the day: what she had to do, what she should have done yesterday, what she might manage to put off until tomorrow. And then, with a delicious feeling like sinking into cool sheets with tired feet, she remembered. She wasn’t going to work today. She no longer had a job outside the home. Being a mother was her job. ‘Housewife.’ She considered the word. Housewife. Stay-at home mother. Was she different? In the half-light of morning seen through cream curtains, she stretched out one arm and looked at it. Exactly the same. Her hand was the same, with slightly ragged cuticles and no polish on the nails. Perhaps she could do things like get manicures now. No, they wouldn’t be able to afford that. She could do them herself. She’d have time. And bake - yes, she’d bake. Muffins from that toddler cookbook, the one she’d had for years but had never used.
