My six-year-old daughter Emma and I were decorating a gingerbread house together, her excitement contagious as she bounced on her toes and exclaimed, “Mommy, can we use all the candy? Gumdrops, frosting, sprinkles – everything!”
As we worked, her giggles filled the kitchen and I couldn’t help but feel guilty for not being at the hospital where I work as a surgeon. But Emma’s happiness erased the thought and I focused on our candy-covered creation, feeling a sense of pride and joy.
Then, Emma mentioned something that caught me off guard. She said the house reminded her of “the secret house Daddy takes me to every weekend.” At first, I laughed it off, thinking she was joking. But as she described the “pretty lady” who gave her candy and called her “dear,” a seed of doubt was planted in my mind.
My husband Mark was my rock, helping to balance our family life while I worked long and demanding hours. But the idea of a “secret house” and a “pretty lady” gnawed at me, and I couldn’t shake off the feeling of insecurity.