Two by Two

CHAPTER 3: And Then What?

Being the sole provider for the family wasn’t easy. By end of the week, I was often exhausted, but one particular Friday evening stands out. London would turn a year old the following day, and I’d spent the day slaving over a series of sales videos for Spannerman Properties-one of the largest real-estate developers in the Southeast-as part of a major advertising push. The agency was earning a small fortune for their efforts and the executives at Spannerman were particularly demanding. There were deadlines for every stage of the project; deadlines made even more difficult by Spannerman himself, a man with a net worth of two billion dollars. He had to approve every decision, and I had the sense that he wanted to make my life as miserable as possible. That he disliked me, I had no doubt. He was the kind of guy who liked to surround himself with beautiful women-most of the executives were attractive females-and it went without saying that Spannerman and Jesse Peters got along famously. I, on the other hand, despised both the man and his company. He had a reputation for cutting corners and paying off politicians, especially when it came to environmental regulations, and there’d been numerous op-eds in the newspaper blasting both him and the company. Which was part of the reason they’d hired our firm in the first place-their image needed serious rebranding.

For most of the year, I’d worked punishing hours on the Spannerman account, and it was far and away the most miserable year of my life. I dreaded heading into work, but because Peters and Spannerman were buddies, I kept my feelings to myself. Eventually, the account was handed off to another executive at the agency-Spannerman decided that he wanted a female executive, which surprised no one-and I breathed a sigh of relief. Had I been forced to continue with Spannerman, I probably would have ended up quitting.

Jesse Peters believed in bonuses as a way to keep employees motivated, and despite the never-ending stress associated with the Spannerman account, I was nonetheless able to maximize every bonus. I had to. I’ve never been comfortable unless I was able to put money into savings and our investment account, but the bonuses also helped to keep the balances on our credit cards at zero. Instead of shrinking over the past year, our monthly expenses had grown larger, despite Vivian’s promise to cut back on “running errands,” which was how she’d begun to refer to shopping. Vivian seemed incapable of entering Target or Walmart without spending at least a couple of hundred dollars, even if she’d gone to pick up laundry detergent. I couldn’t understand it-I speculated that it filled a sort of unknown emptiness inside her-and when particularly exhausted, I sometimes felt resentful and used. Yet, when I tried to discuss the matter with her, it often led to an argument. Even when tempers didn’t flare, however, little seemed to change. She would always assure me that she only bought what we needed, or that I was lucky because she’d taken advantage of a sale.

But on that Friday night those concerns seemed distant, and when I entered the living room, I saw London in the playpen, and she offered me the kind of smile that never ceased to move me. Vivian, as beautiful as ever, was on the couch flipping through a house and garden magazine. I kissed London and then Vivian, enveloped in the scent of baby powder and perfume.

We had dinner, talk running to what each of us had done that day, and then began the process of getting London ready for bed. Vivian went first, bathing her and dressing London in her pajamas; I read to her and tucked her in bed, knowing she’d fall asleep within a few minutes.

Downstairs, I poured myself a glass of wine, and noticed that the bottle was getting close to empty, which meant that Vivian was probably on her second glass. Glass one was a maybe when it came to fooling around; glass two made it likely, and as tired as I was, I felt my mood lift.

Vivian was still thumbing through the magazine when I sat beside her. In time, Vivian angled the magazine toward me.

“What do you think of this kitchen?” she asked.

The kitchen displayed in the photograph had cream cabinets topped with brown granite countertops, the color palette matched by the detailing on the cabinets. An island stood amidst gleaming state-of-the-art appliances, a suburban fantasy.

“It’s gorgeous,” I admitted.

“It is, isn’t it? Everything about the kitchen speaks to class. And I just love the lighting. The chandelier is breathtaking.”

I hadn’t even noticed the lighting and leaned closer. “Wow. That is something.”

“The article said that remodeling a kitchen almost always adds value to a house. If we ever decide to sell.”

“Why would we sell? I love it here.”

“I’m not talking about selling it now. But we’re not going to live here forever.”

Oddly, the thought that we wouldn’t live here forever had never crossed my mind. My parents, after all, still lived in the same house where I’d grown up, but that’s not what Vivian really wanted to talk about.

“You’re probably right about it adding value,” I said, “but I’m not sure we can afford to remodel our kitchen right now.”

“We have money in savings, don’t we?”

“Yes, but that’s our rainy-day fund. For emergencies.”

“Okay,” she said. I could the disappointment in her tone. “I was just wondering.”

I watched as she carefully folded the corner of the page down, so she could find the photo later, and I felt like a failure. I hated to disappoint her.

Life as a stay-at-home mother was good for Vivian.

Despite having a child, Vivian could still pass for a woman ten years younger, and even after London was born, she was occasionally carded when ordering a cocktail. Time had little effect on her, yet it was other qualities that made her particularly unusual. Vivian had always struck me as mature and confident, self-assured in her thoughts and opinions, and unlike me, she’s always had the courage to speak her mind. If she wanted something, she’d let me know; if something was bothering her, she never held her feelings in reserve, even if I might be upset by what she said. The strength to be who you are without fear of rejection from others was something I respected, if only because it was something I aspired to myself.

She was strong, too. Vivian didn’t whine or complain in the face of adversity; if anything, she became almost stoic. In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve seen her cry only once, and that was when Harvey, her cat, passed away. At the time, she was pregnant with London and Harvey had been with her since she was a sophomore in college; even with her hormones in overdrive, it was less like sobbing than a couple of tears leaking onto her cheeks.

People can read whatever they want into the fact that she wasn’t prone to weeping, but the fact was, there hasn’t been much for Vivian to cry about. To that point, we’d been spared any major tragedies and if there was anything at all that might have been a cause for disappointment, it was that Vivian hadn’t been able to become pregnant a second time. We’d begun trying when London was eighteen months old, but month after month passed without success, and though I was willing to see a specialist, Vivian seemed content to let nature take its course.

Even without another child, though, I usually felt lucky to be married to Vivian, partly because of our daughter. Some women are better suited to motherhood than others, and Vivian had been a natural. She was conscientious and loving, a natural nurse unfazed by diarrhea or vomit, and a model of patience. Vivian read London hundreds of books and could play on the floor for hours; the two of them went to parks and the library, and the sight of Vivian pushing London in a jogger-stroller was a common one in our neighborhood. There were other activities and scheduled playdates with neighborhood kids, preschool classes, and the usual doctors’ and dentists’ appointments, which meant that the two of them were always on the go. And yet when I think back on those first years of London’s life, the image of Vivian that most comes to mind is the expression of absolute joy on her face, whether holding London or watching our daughter gradually discover the world. Once when London was about eight months old and sitting in the high chair, she happened to sneeze. For whatever reason, London found that highly amusing and began to laugh; I offered a fake sneeze, and London’s laughter became uncontrollable. While I found the experience delightful, for Vivian, it was more. The love she felt for our daughter eclipsed everything else, even the love she felt for me.

The all-consuming nature of motherhood-or Vivian’s view of it, anyway-not only allowed me to concentrate on my career, but it also meant I seldom had to take care of London on my own, so I never really learned how challenging it could be. Because Vivian made it look easy, I thought it was easy for her, but over time, Vivian became moodier and more irritable. Basic household chores also took a backseat, and I often came home to a living room littered from wall to wall with toys and a kitchen sink filled with dirty dishes. Laundry piled up, carpets weren’t vacuumed, and because I’ve always disliked a messy house, I eventually decided to bring someone in twice a week to clean. During London’s toddler years, I added a babysitter three afternoons a week to give Vivian a break during the day and I began watching London on Saturday mornings, so Vivian could have some Me Time. My hope was that she would have more energy for us as a couple again. To my mind, it seemed that my wife had begun to define herself as Vivian and a mother and that the three of us together were a family, but that being a wife and part of a couple had gradually become an inconvenience to her.

Yet most of the time, our relationship didn’t bother me. I figured we were like most married couples with young children. In the evenings, we generally talked about the stuff of life: conversations about children or work or family, or what to eat or where to go on the weekend, or when to bring the car in for an inspection. And it wasn’t as though I always felt like an afterthought; Vivian and I began to set aside Friday nights as date nights. Even people at work knew about our date night, and unless there was an absolute emergency, I would leave the office at a reasonable hour, put some music on in the car on the way home, and be smiling as soon as I walked in the door. London and I would spend time together while Vivian dressed up, and after London went to sleep, it almost felt as though Vivian and I were dating again.

Vivian also humored me when work was particularly stressful. When I was thirty-three, I’d considered trading in my respectable car-the hybrid-for a Mustang GT, even if the trade-in wouldn’t have caused much of a dent in the purchase price. At the time it didn’t matter; when I took it on a test drive with the enthusiastic salesman, I heard the throaty roar of the engine and knew it was a car that would elicit envious glances as I drove down the highway. The salesman played right along and when I told Vivian about it later, she didn’t tease me about being too young for the middle-age crazies, or worry aloud that I clearly wanted something different than the life I was leading. Instead, she let me indulge the fantasy for a while, and when I finally came to my senses, I bought something similar to what I already had: another hybrid with four doors, extra storage in the trunk and an excellent safety ranking in Consumer Reports. And I’ve never regretted it.

Well, maybe I regretted it a little, but that’s beside the point.

And through it all, I loved Vivian, and never once did I waver from the conviction that I wanted to spend my life with her. In my desire to show it, I thought long and hard about what to buy her for Christmases, anniversaries, birthdays, as well as Valentine’s and Mother’s Day. I had flowers delivered to her unexpectedly, tucked notes under her pillow before heading off to work, and would sometimes surprise her with breakfast in bed. Early on, she appreciated those gestures; in time, they seemed to lose a bit of luster because she’d come to expect them. So I’d rack my brain, trying to think of another way to please her, something that would let her know how much she still meant to me.

And in the end, among other things, Vivian received the kitchen she’d wanted, just like the one in the magazine.

Vivian had always planned to go back to work once London started school, something part-time, which would still allow her to spend her afternoons and evenings at home. Vivian insisted that she had no desire to be one of those moms who became permanent volunteers in the classroom, or decorated the cafeteria at the holidays. Nor did she want to spend her days in an otherwise empty house; in addition to being a great mother, Vivian is also brilliant. She’d graduated from Georgetown University summa cum laude, and prior to becoming a mom and housewife, she’d served as a successful publicist not only for the talk show host in New York, but at the media company where she’d worked until London came along.

As for me, I’d not only maximized every bonus since starting at the agency, I’d received promotions as well, and by 2014, I was heading up some of the agency’s major accounts. Vivian and I had been married for seven years, London had recently turned five, and I was thirty-four years old. We’d not only remodeled the kitchen of our home, but we also had plans to remodel the master bathroom as well. The stock market had been kind to our investments-especially Apple, our largest holding-and aside from the mortgage we had no debts. I adored my wife and child, my parents lived nearby and my sister and Liz were my best friends in the world. From the outside, my life seemed charmed, and I would say as much to anyone who asked.

And yet deep down, part of me would also have known that I was lying.

As well as things had been going at work, no one who reported to Jesse Peters ever felt comfortable or secure in their job. Peters had started the agency twenty years earlier and with offices in Charlotte, Atlanta, Tampa, Nashville, and New York, it was far and away the most prominent agency headquartered in the Southeast. Peters, with blue eyes and hair that had gone silver in his twenties, was legendary for being both shrewd and ruthless; his modus operandi had been to run other agencies out of business either by poaching clients or undercutting fees; when those strategies didn’t work, he’d simply buy out his competitors. His successes further inflated his already massive ego to megalomaniacal proportions, and his management style fully reflected his personality. He was certain that his opinions were always correct, and he played favorites among the employees, frequently pitting one executive against the other, effectively keeping everyone on edge. He fostered a climate in which most employees attempted to claim more credit on successes than they deserved, while hinting that any failures or mistakes were the other guy’s fault. It was a brutal form of social Darwinism, in which only a select few had any chance for long-term survival.

Fortunately, for more than a decade I’d been relatively spared the savage rounds of office politics that had caused more than one nervous breakdown among the executive staff; early on because I was too subordinate to care about, and later on because I brought in clients who appreciated my work and paid the firm accordingly. Over time, I suppose I convinced myself that because I made Peters a lot of money, he considered me too valuable to torment. After all, Peters wasn’t nearly as hard on me as he’d been on others in the agency. While he’d chat with me in the hallway, other executives-some with more experience than I-would often emerge from Peters’s office appearing shell-shocked. When I’d see them, I couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief-and maybe even feel a little smug-that such a thing had never happened to me.

But assumptions are only as accurate as the person who makes them, and I was wrong about virtually everything. My first major promotion had somewhat coincided with my marriage to Vivian; my second promotion had occurred two weeks after Vivian had come to the office to drop off my car after it had been in the shop, one of those drop-ins that could go catastrophically wrong but in this case had caused the boss to join us in my office before eventually taking us to lunch. The third promotion came less than a week after Peters and Vivian spent three hours talking at a client’s dinner party. Only in retrospect did it become clear that Peters was less interested in my work performance than he was in Vivian, and it was that simple truth that had kept him from zeroing in on me all along. Vivian, I should note, bore a striking resemblance to both of Peters’s former wives, and Peters, I suspected, wanted nothing more than to keep her happy… or if possible, marry wife number three, even if it cost me my own marriage.

I’m not kidding. Nor am I exaggerating. Whenever Peters spoke to me, he never failed to ask me how Vivian was doing, or comment on what a beautiful woman she was, or ask how we were doing. At client dinners-three or four times a year-Peters always found a way to sit beside my wife, and every Christmas party included the sight of them, heads together in a corner. I probably could have ignored all of this, if not for Vivian’s response to his obvious attraction. Though she didn’t do anything to encourage Peters, she didn’t do anything to discourage his attention either. As terrible as he was as a boss, Peters could be quite charming around women, especially beautiful ones like Vivian. He would listen and laugh and offer just the right compliment at exactly the right time, and because he was also as rich as Midas, it struck me as possible-even likely-that Vivian was flattered by his interest. His attraction toward her was, for her, par for the course. Guys had been vying for her attention ever since she’d been in elementary school and she’d come to expect it; what she didn’t like, however, was the fact that it sometimes made me jealous.

In December 2014-the month before the most fateful year of my life-we were getting ready for the agency’s annual office Christmas party. When I expressed my concerns about the situation, she heaved an aggravated sigh.

“Get over it,” she said and I turned away, wondering why it was my wife seemed so dismissive of my feelings.

To rewind a bit on Vivian and me:

As rewarding as motherhood had been for Vivian, marriage to me seemed to have dimmed in its appeal. I can remember thinking that Vivian had changed in the years we’d been married, but lately, I’ve come to believe that Vivian didn’t change so much as simply evolve, becoming more of the person she’d always been-a person who gradually felt to me like a stranger.

The shift was so subtle as to barely be noticeable. In the first year of London’s life, I accepted Vivian’s occasional moodiness and irritation as something normal and expected, a phase that would pass. I can’t say I enjoyed it, but I grew used to it, even when it seemed to border on contempt. But the phase never seemed to end. Over the next few years, Vivian seemed to grow more angry, more disappointed, and more dismissive of my concerns. She frequently grew angry over even minor things, hurling insults I could never imagine even whispering aloud. Her aggression was swift and pointed, usually aimed at getting me to apologize and back down. As someone who disliked conflict, I eventually reached the point where I nearly always retreated as soon as she raised her voice, no matter what grievances I might have held.

The aftermath of her anger was often worse than the attack itself. Forgiveness seemed unobtainable, and instead of continuing to discuss things or simply putting them behind her, Vivian would withdraw. She would say little or nothing to me at all, sometimes for days, answering questions with one or two words. Instead, she would focus her attention on London, and retreat to the bedroom as soon as our daughter was tucked in, leaving me alone in the family room. On those days she radiated contempt, leaving me to wonder whether my wife still loved me at all.

And yet there was an unpredictability to all of these things, rules suddenly changing and then changing again. Vivian would be in her anger forthright, then passive-aggressive, whichever seemed to fit her mood. Her expectations of me became increasingly fuzzy and half the time, I wasn’t sure what to do or not to do, rehashing events in the wake of a blowout, trying to figure out what I might have done to upset her. Nor would she tell me; instead, she’d deny that anything was wrong or accuse me of overreacting. I often felt as if I were walking through a minefield, with both my emotional state and the marriage on the line… and then suddenly, for reasons that were equally mysterious to me, our relationship would revert to something approaching normal. She’d ask about my day or whether there was anything special I wanted for dinner; and after London went to bed, we would make love-the ultimate signal that I’d been forgiven. Afterward, I’d breathe a sigh of relief, hopeful that things were finally returning to the way they used to be.

Vivian would deny my version of these events, or at least my interpretation of them. Angrily. Or she’d cast her actions and behaviors as responses to things I’d done. She would say that I had an unrealistic view of marriage, and that I’d somehow expected the honeymoon to last forever, which just wasn’t possible. She claimed that I brought work stress home, and that I was the one who was moody, not her; that I resented the fact that she’d been able to stay at home and that I often took my resentment out on her.

Whatever version of events was objectively true, in my heart what I wanted more than anything was for Vivian to be happy. Or, more specifically, happy with me. I still loved Vivian, after all, and I missed how she used to smile and laugh when we were together; I missed our rambling conversations and the way we used to hold hands. I missed the Vivian who’d made me believe that I was a man worthy of her love.

Yet, with the exception of our Friday evening date nights, our relationship continued its gradual evolution into something I didn’t always recognize, or even want. Vivian’s contempt began to hurt me. I spent most of those years being disappointed in myself for constantly letting her down, and vowing to try even harder to please her.

Now, fast-forward back to the night of the Christmas party again.

“Get over it,” she’d said to me, and the words continued to play in my mind, even as I dressed. They were sharp, dismissive of my concern and devoid of empathy, but even so, what I remember most about that evening was that Vivian looked even more stunning than usual. She was wearing a black cocktail dress, pumps, and the diamond pendant necklace I’d given her on her last birthday. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, and when she emerged from the bathroom, all I could do was stare.

“You look beautiful,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said, clutching her handbag.

In the car, things were still tense between us. We stumbled through some small talk, and when she discerned I wasn’t going to bring up Peters again, her mood began to thaw. By the time we arrived at the party, it was almost as though she and I had come to an unspoken agreement to pretend that my comment and her response had never been uttered at all.

Yet, she’d heard me. As annoyed as she’d been, Vivian stayed by my side virtually the entire evening. Peters chatted with us on three separate occasions and twice asked Vivian if she wanted to get something to drink-it was clear he wanted her to join him at the bar-and on both occasions, she shook her head, telling him that she’d already ordered from one of the waiters. She was polite and friendly as she said it, and I found myself wondering whether I’d been making too much of the whole Peters situation after all. He could flirt with her all he wanted, but at the end of the night she would head home with me, and that was all that really mattered, right?

The party itself was largely forgettable-it was no better or worse or even all that different from any other office Christmas party-but after we got home and let our teenage babysitter go, Vivian asked me to pour her a glass of wine and check in on London. By the time I finally made it to the bedroom, there were candles lit and she was wearing lingerie… and…

That was the thing about Vivian; trying to guess what she was going to do next was often pointless; even after seven years, she could still amaze me, sometimes in blissfully tender ways.

Big mistake.

That’s pretty much the way I think about that evening now, at least when it came to my career at the agency.

Jesse Peters, it turns out, wasn’t pleased that Vivian had avoided him, and by the following week, a distinct cooling breeze began flowing from his office toward mine. It was subtle at first; when I saw him in the hallway on the Monday following the party, he walked past with a curt nod, and during a creative meeting a few days later, he asked everyone questions but me. Those types of minor snubs continued, but because I was buried in yet another complex campaign-for a bank that wanted a campaign centered on integrity but that also felt new-I thought nothing of it. After that came the holidays and because the office was always a bit crazed at the beginning of a new year, it wasn’t until the end of January when I registered the fact that Jesse Peters had barely spoken to me for at least six weeks. At that point, I began swinging by his office, but his assistant would inform me that he was on a call or otherwise busy. What finally made me understand the depth of his peevishness with me came in mid-February, when he finally made time to see me. Actually, through his secretary, and then mine, he requested to see me, which essentially meant I had no choice. The firm had lost a major client, an automotive dealer with eight locations throughout Charlotte, and it had been my account. After I walked him through the reasons I thought the client had chosen another firm, he fixed me with an unblinking stare. More ominously, he neither mentioned Vivian nor asked about her. At the conclusion of our meeting, I walked out the door feeling much like the executives I used to feel superior to, the ones I’d seen teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I had the sinking feeling that my days at the Peters Group were suddenly numbered.

Even harder to bear was the fact that it wasn’t because of anything I did or didn’t do for the auto dealer-a man in his late sixties-that made him leave. I’ve seen the print ads and commercials from the agency that took over the account and I still believe that our ideas were more creative and more effective. But clients can be fickle. A downturn in the economy, change in management, or simply the desire to cut expenses in the short run can lead to changes that affect our industry, but sometimes, it has nothing to do with business at all. In this case, the client was going through a divorce and needed money to pay for the settlement; cutting advertising for the next six months would save him more than six figures, and he needed to hoard every penny, since his wife had hired a notoriously cutthroat lawyer. With court costs rising and a nasty settlement in the making, the guy was trimming every expense he could, and Peters knew it.

A month later, when another client pulled the plug-a chain of urgent care clinics-Peters’s displeasure with me was even more evident. It wasn’t a major client-frankly, it barely classified as even a medium client-and the fact that I’d signed three new clients since the beginning of the year seemed to matter to him not at all. Instead, after again summoning me, he ventured aloud that “you might be losing your touch” and that “clients may have stopped trusting your judgment.” As a final exclamation point to the meeting, he called Todd Henley into the office and announced that from that point on, we’d be “working together.” Henley was an up-and-comer-he’d been at the agency five years-and though he was somewhat creative, his real skill was navigating the political waters of the agency. I’d known he was gunning for my job-he wasn’t the only one, but he was the most sycophantic of the bunch. When he suddenly began spending more time in Peters’s office-no doubt claiming more credit than he deserved for any ad campaign we were working on-and leaving with a self-satisfied smirk I knew I had to start making plans.

My experience, position, and current salary didn’t leave many options. Because Peters dominated the advertising industry in the Charlotte area, I had to cast a wider net. In Atlanta, Peters was number two in the market and growing, gobbling up smaller agencies and landing new clients. The current market leader had gone through two recent transitions in leadership and was now in a hiring freeze. After that, I contacted firms in Washington, D.C., Richmond, and Baltimore, thinking that being closer to Vivian’s parents would make the move from Charlotte more palatable to Vivian. Again, however, I couldn’t land so much as an interview.

There were other possibilities, of course, depending on how far away from Charlotte I’d be willing to move, and I contacted seven or eight firms throughout the Southeast and Midwest. And yet with every call, I also grew more certain that I didn’t want to leave. My parents were here, Marge and Liz were here; Charlotte was home for me. And with that, the idea of starting my own business-a boutique advertising agency-began to rise from the ashes like the mythical phoenix. Which, I realized, also happened to be a perfect name…

The Phoenix Agency. Where your business will rise to levels of unprecedented success.

All at once, I could see the slogan on business cards; I could imagine chatting with clients, and when visiting my parents, I casually mentioned the idea to my father. He told me straight out that it wasn’t a good idea; Vivian wasn’t thrilled about it either. I’d been keeping her informed about my job search and when I mentioned my idea for the Phoenix Agency, she’d suggested I try looking into New York and Chicago, two places I considered nonstarters. But still, I couldn’t shake off my dream, and the advantages began to tumble through my mind.

As a solo operator, I’d have little in the way of overhead.

I was on a first-name basis with CEOs and other executives throughout Charlotte.

I was excellent at my job.

I’d be a boutique firm, catering to only a few clients.

I could charge the client less and earn more.

Meanwhile, at the office, I began running numbers and making projections. I called clients, asking if they were satisfied with the service and pricing they were getting from the Peters Group, and their answers bolstered my certainty that I couldn’t fail. Meanwhile, Henley was verbally slipping me into concrete loafers and tossing me overboard every time he walked into Peters’s office, and Peters actually began to scowl at me.

That was when I knew Peters would fire me, which meant I had no choice but to strike out on my own.

All I had left to do was officially tell Vivian.

What could be better than celebrating my future success on date night?

Granted, I could have chosen another night, but I wanted to share my excitement with her. I wanted her support. I wanted to share my plans and have her reach across the table to take my hands while saying I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for you to do something like this. There’s no doubt in my mind you’ll be a success. I’ve always believed in you.

About a year later, when I confessed to Marge my hopes for that night, she’d actually laughed aloud. “So let me get this straight,” she’d said to me. “You basically ripped away her sense of security and told her you were about to turn your lives upside down… and you honestly believed she’d think it was a good idea? You had a child, for God’s sake. And a mortgage. And other bills. Are you out of your mind?”

“But…”

“There are no buts,” she said. “You know that Vivian and I don’t always agree, but on that night, she was right.”

Maybe Marge had a point, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. On the night in question after we’d put London to bed, I grilled steaks-about the only thing I could actually cook well-while Vivian prepared a salad, steamed some broccoli, and sautéed green beans with shaved almonds. Vivian, I should add, never ate what might be considered unhealthy carbs-bread, ice cream, pasta, sugar, or anything that included white flour-all of which I considered to be rather tasty and indulged in during my lunches, which probably explained my love handles.

Dinner, however, was tense from the beginning. My intention to keep things light and easy seemed only to put her more on edge, as if she were preparing herself for whatever might be coming next. Vivian had always been able to read me like Moses read the Commandments, and her growing unease made me try even harder to keep things breezy, which only made her sit even straighter in her chair.

I waited until we were nearly finished with the meal. She’d eaten two or three ounces of her steak and I’d refilled her glass of wine when I started to tell her about Henley and Peters and my suspicion about being fired. She merely nodded, so I gathered my courage and launched into my plans, walking through my projections while underscoring every reason for the decision. As I spoke, she may as well have been carved from marble. She sat as still as I’d ever seen her, not even glancing at her glass of wine. Nor did she ask any questions until after I’d finished. Silence filled the room, echoing against the walls.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she finally offered.

It wasn’t the ringing endorsement that I’d wanted, but she didn’t storm off either, which I took as a good sign. Silly me.

“Actually,” I admitted, “it scares the hell out of me, but if I don’t do it now, I don’t know if I ever will.”

“Aren’t you kind of young to start your own agency?”

“I’m thirty-five. Peters was only thirty when he started his agency.”

She pressed her lips together and I could almost see the words forming in her mind-but you aren’t Peters. Thankfully, she didn’t say that. Instead, she drew her brows together, though not a single wrinkle showed. The woman really was a marvel when it came to aging. “Do you even know how to start your own agency?”

“It’s like starting any other business, and people start businesses all the time. Essentially, it comes down to filing the appropriate paperwork with the government, hiring a good lawyer and accountant and setting up the office.”

“How long would that take?”

“A month, maybe? And once I’m in an office, I’ll start signing clients.”

“If they decide to hire you.”

“I can get the clients,” I said. “I’m not worried about that. Peters is expensive, and I’ve worked with some of these clients for years. I’m sure they’ll jump ship if given the chance.”

“But you still won’t be earning anything for a while.”

“We’ll just have to cut back a bit on a few things. Like the cleaning lady, for instance.”

“You want me to clean the house?”

“I can help,” I assured her.

“Obviously,” she said. “Where are you getting the money for all this?”

“I was planning to use some of the money from our investments.”

“Our investments?” she repeated.

“We’ve got more than enough to live on for a year.”

“A year?” she asked, echoing me a second time.

“And that’s with no income at all,” I said. “Which isn’t going to happen.”

She nodded. “No income.”

“I know it seems scary right now, but in the end, it’s all going to be worth it. And your life isn’t going to change.”

“You mean aside from expecting me to be your maid, you mean.”

“That’s not what I said…”

She cut me off before I could finish. “Peters isn’t just going to sit back and applaud your courage,” she pointed out. “If he thinks you’re trying to poach his clients, he’ll do whatever it takes to run you out of business.”

“He can try,” I said. “But in the end, money talks.”

“He’s got more of it.”

“I’m talking about the clients’ money.”

“And I’m talking about money for our family,” she said, a hard edge coming into her voice. “What about us? What about me? Do you expect me to simply go along with this? We have a child, for God’s sake.”

“And I’m supposed to just give up my dreams?”

“Don’t play the martyr. I hate when you do that.”

“I’m not playing the martyr. I’m trying to have a discussion…”

“No you’re not!” she said, her voice rising. “You’ve telling me what you want to do, even if it might not be good for our family!”

I exhaled slowly, concentrating on keeping my voice steady. “I’ve already told you that I’m sure Peters is going to fire me and there’s no other jobs around here.”

“Have you tried to talk to him?”

“Of course I’ve tried to talk to him.”

“So you say.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Only partly.”

“What part?”

She slammed her napkin onto her plate and rose from the table. “The part where you’re going to do what you want to do, even if it’s detrimental to us and our child.”

“Are you saying that I don’t care about our family?”

But by then, she’d left the room.

That night, I slept in the guest room. And while remaining somewhat cordial while answering questions with one- or two-word answers, Vivian didn’t otherwise speak to me for the next three days.

As good as Marge was at keeping me alive during my youth and offering pearls of wisdom when it came to my flaws, there was a part of her that resented having to babysit me once her teenage years kicked in. She began spending an inordinate amount of time on the phone, and as a result, I watched a lot of television. I can’t speak for other kids, but I learned much of what I know about commercials and advertising simply by osmosis. I didn’t learn it in college, nor did I learn it from my older, more experienced cohorts at the agency, since half of them were spending their creative energy trying to sabotage the careers of the other half, courtesy of Peters. Not knowing what else to do when I was thrown headfirst into the job, I’d listen as clients described what they wanted to achieve, tap into my well of memories, and come up with new spins on old commercials.

It wasn’t quite that simple, of course. Advertising encompasses a lot more than simply television commercials. Over the years, I’d generated catchy slogans for print ads, or billboards; I’d scripted radio commercials and infomercials; I’d helped to redesign websites and created viable social media campaigns; I’d been part of a team that prioritized Internet searches and banner ads targeted to specific zip codes, income, and educational levels, and for one particular client, I conceived and executed the use of advertising on paneled trucks. While virtually all of that work was completed in-house at Peters by various teams, as a solo operator, I’d be responsible for whatever the client needed, and while I was strong in some areas, I was weaker in others, particularly when it came to tech. Fortunately, I’d been in the business long enough to know local vendors who provided the services I’d need, and one by one, I made contact with them.

I hadn’t been lying to Vivian when I told her I wasn’t worried about landing clients, but unfortunately, I made a mistake, one that was filled with irony. I forgot to plan an advertising campaign for my own business. I should have spent more money putting together a high-quality website and creating promotional materials that reflected the firm I intended to have, not the one I was building from the ground up. I should have put together some quality direct mailings that would inspire clients to reach out to me.

Instead, however, I spent the month of May making sure that the infrastructure was in place to accommodate my success. Using vacation days, I hired a lawyer and accountant, and had the appropriate paperwork filed. I leased an office with a shared receptionist. I purchased office equipment, signed leases for other equipment, and stocked my office with the supplies I knew I’d need. I read books on starting a business, and all of them stressed the importance of being adequately capitalized, and in mid-May, I submitted my two-week notice. If there was any dimming of my excitement, it had to do with the fact that I’d underestimated my start-up costs, while the regular bills still kept coming. The year of no income I’d mentioned to Vivian had shrunk to nine months.

But no matter. June first rolled around, and it was time to officially launch the Phoenix Agency. I sent letters to clients I’d worked with in the past, explaining the services I could offer while promising significant savings, and I let them know that I hoped to hear from them. I started making calls, lining up appointments, and after that, I leaned back in my chair, waiting for the phone to ring.