It all began when my child made an innocent remark about our nanny that didn’t sit well with me. I dismissed it at first. But I couldn’t ignore my gut.
I would have told you a month ago that my life was the stuff of a well-written romantic comedy, the kind that finishes with a beach home, slow dancing in the kitchen, and a wedding montage.
I’m Georgia, 36, a successful lawyer, a mother of three, and I’m married to the ideal man. Or so I believed.
My spouse, Patrick, has that tall, clean-cut, tailored-suit kind of beauty, and he’s charming and considerate. He used to make me feel like the only woman in the world, he owns a consulting business, and he wears pricey cologne that always seems to smell better on him than it does in the bottle.
Every single item was ours. Deep closeness (the kind where you can’t stop touching each other), lengthy wine-related chats, goofy nicknames, Napa weekend getaways, monthly movie outings, and those “just because” roses that unexpectedly appear at your workplace.
I felt as like everything had come together when I was promoted to senior partner at my firm, something I had been working hard for the past five years. The cases grew in size, my pay doubled, and yes, I worked longer hours. All of this was planned.
At that point, the nanny’s chat evolved beyond simple pillow talk.
“We can’t keep juggling sitters,” I said to Patrick one evening as I was giving our youngest some mashed peas. “We require a reliable individual. Someone who works full-time.”
“Agreed,” he replied, planting a kiss on my temple. “Let’s find a someone.”
