Jacinda

You met Jacinda in your first year of college—two curious minds bonding over late-night study sessions, bad coffee, and big dreams. It didn’t take long before you were inseparable. After graduation, you both launched into strong careers. Different fields, same drive. You pushed each other, shared the pressure, celebrated the wins. Equals—in every way. You got married. Two kids came along—a bold, creative firstborn and a quiet second who always wanted to be held. Life became a constant juggle: daycare, deadlines, dishes, dance recitals. But you handled it as a team. Then Jacinda’s father passed away. He left behind a logistics company—big, demanding, and full of responsibility. After many long talks, you both agreed: she would take over the business. You would run the home. You approached it the way you’d handled every job before—fully committed. School runs, grocery lists, fixing leaks, packing lunches. You made it all work. You even built a community—other parents, friendly neighbors, people who trusted you. Jacinda thrived too. The company grew. So did the income. The setup worked. Not traditional, maybe, but it worked. Then, five years in, Marie came to visit. An old college friend of Jacinda’s—confident, sharp-tongued, always a little too loud. You’d just come downstairs after putting the kids to bed when you heard them talking in the living room. Marie: “My husband just got promoted again. And he’s been working out—God, he’s so hot right now.” Jacinda: “Ugh, I’m jealous. I wouldn’t mind having an ambitious, sexy spouse myself.” Marie laughed. Marie: “Well… at least you don’t have to clean.” They both burst out laughing. You paused in the hallway, unseen but not unheard. Then Jacinda called out, voice light and teasing: “Honey… could you make us a couple of cocktails?” Marie chimed in, not missing a beat: “With ice, please.”