Five years ago, my wife blindsided me with the news that she was no longer happy in our marriage and wanted to move toward divorce. We’d been together for 16 years, married for seven, and I had thought—everyone who knew us had thought!—that we had an idyllic relationship. We spoke kindly to each other and had no conflict. We were very much on the same page politically and ethically. We had two children together, who were then 5 and 2 years old.

I was in shock. We did some therapy but it was clear that her mind was made up, and we separated within a few months, finalizing our divorce agreement later that year. I went through all the emotions. Sadness, of course, for myself and for our kids. Guilt, that I’d not seen this coming or been a better partner that could have held her love. And then the rage.

I moved on quickly, seeking solace in meaningless sexual dalliances. Fortunately for me, one of those casual affairs turned out to be the love of my life, a man of integrity who is his authentic self and who loves my children as though they were his own. I have learned that one can and should argue with one’s partner about all manner of things. I have learned that I am lovable and resilient. In love, I am happy.

But the rage, Abigail. I can’t let go of it. I’m angry for myself and I’m angrier for my daughters. Because I share custody with my ex-wife, I must interact with her constantly. I used to think she hung the moon. Now I think she’s a weak, pathetic coward who has prioritized self-indulgent therapeutic bullshit over what’s best for the babies she chose to bring into the world. I disagree with her on so many issues now, and every parenting decision is like a committee meeting where I need to stay calm and neutral, but inside I seethe. I hate her.

How do I forgive a person who betrayed me and torpedoed our family? Why am I so furious over something that ended up leading me onto a path that has made me so fulfilled? How do I let go?

—Anna, 43

Anna,

Your ex-wife seems to think the two of you had a fender bender. Sure, there were children involved, but these things happen in life’s daily traffic. You exchange information and depart like adults.

From your perspective, you were the victim of a debilitating hit-and-run. Blindsided by the woman you married, who trampled your heart and broke up your family. You responded with hurt, dabbled in sexual adventurism, and found new love.

But there are other characters in this story whose perspective you nearly omit. What have your girls’ lives been like—as they went from ages 5 and 2 to 10 and 7? Formative years, while one foolish mother broke up their family for no real reason, and the other, still reeling, reenacted her college years with strangers. Even the love in which you find yourself now—exhilarating for you—requires them to absorb another adult, another reconfiguration of home, and another mother’s reinvention.

I don’t hear you worry over any of this. Instead you ask what to do with your rage, which is just your old obsession with your ex-wife in even less flattering clothes.

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My wife and I have known each other for 20 years, and for 20 years, we’ve been unable to talk about money without fighting. She wants to spend without regard for our budget, and I want to save. We have two daughters, who are in second and third grade, and I worry about paying for college, camp, cars, everything. We share a bank account and credit card, but for some reason (I think her mom’s advice), my wife has always insisted on also having her own separate bank account and credit card. I think she doesn’t want me bitching about her buying shoes and facial products, and she’s probably right, because I’m sure I would bitch about that.

My wife’s salary is about half of mine—I also get bonuses if work’s going well, but they’re not guaranteed, which adds to my anxiety—but I made a deal with her: I’m fine with her keeping her own account as long as she puts roughly half her paycheck into our joint account to help pay for our family’s expenses, and so I can keep track of whether we are saving money or losing money.

For years she’s played games with this, randomly transferring money from our joint account to hers without telling me what it is for, or not adding the full amount we agreed upon. Any time I ask her about this, we get into a huge fight. She thinks I’m cheap and crazy about money, and I think she doesn’t care about the future.

Over the past six months, she has stopped contributing about 25 percent of the amount we agreed to, which is really affecting our budget. I brought this up a few months ago, and she said she would fix it. I looked at our account today: She is still not adding the money she promised. I sent her a text today about it, and she did not respond.

Meanwhile, she’s been on my case about taking our kids to Disney for the first time next year—which is something I’d love to do, but it annoys me that she wants to spend money on a trip when she hasn’t been helping with savings. Last month, our credit card bill was way over budget, and she still decided to hire someone to fix our driveway. She feels: If it needs to get fixed, it needs to get fixed. She may be right about that. I once came home and flipped out when I saw she hired someone to cut down a bunch of trees—I would’ve waited until the trees were a day away from falling on the house—because I stress about spending money on things we need, too.

But at some point, when you spend more than you make, you eventually lose all your money.

—Mark, 41

Mark,

Public urinals—I am told—are plagued by a nasty feedback loop. The first man splashes on the urinal cake, creating a small dribble on the floor. The next man stands a little farther back, to avoid the wet tile. Because he’s farther away, he misses a bit, and the dribble expands to a puddle. The man after him stands still farther back, missing badly. Pretty soon, the puddle is huge and the bathroom is disgusting. This according to my husband, who is proud to have discovered what he believes to be the perfect example of a “vicious cycle.”

You and your wife are stuck in one, dear Mark. (Not a urinal—a cycle.) Things are getting worse between you and your wife because they’ve gotten worse.

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What’s so hard about marriage?

I’ve lived with my husband for three years now, but we’ve been married for only one. We’ve been together, and very enmeshed in each other’s lives, for about six years.

I know this sounds flippant and arrogant, but I am way happier with my husband than I ever expected to be with anyone. It’s crazy to me how much he loves me. Somehow I married this guy. How can I avoid ruining this? I am a child of divorce and I fear that somehow, without my knowing, the other shoe will drop.

I was always someone who did her homework ahead of schedule. So maybe that’s what drives my urge to understand why everyone says marriage is so hard, and to try to get ahead of it. I know if we are so lucky to have kids we will be sleep-deprived and unhappy, which makes sense, but I feel like the general cultural narrative about marriage being hard extends beyond those early childbearing years. Is it that the damage done in that phase is permanent, so you hate your husband forever?

What can I do to keep this? Should we get preventative couple’s therapy? Or is it time, now that I’m an adult, to realize that I can’t do my homework in advance? Can you future-proof your marriage?

—Grace, 29

Grace,

It’s hard to be wealthy—so much property to keep track of! Organizations and acquaintances with their hands out. Complex decisions about your estate. The nagging fear that abundance will ruin the kids.

It’s hard to live near family—always someone getting on your nerves. Asking how you’re doing, even when you wish they wouldn’t. Inviting you to their kids’ birthday parties and school plays and soccer games.

It’s hard to be beautiful—so much kinetic attention it invites. The work to maintain it, the expectation that you will. Everyone commenting on how you look, paying extra notice on the days your beauty falters. Managing the envy of friends and frenemies.

Being an American? That’s hard too. Laboring under the expectations of the world. No one looks to Portugal to stand up to China or to Belgium to guarantee open sea lanes. But Americans are forever called upon to remain strong, decent, self-correcting, and free.

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About eight months ago, when my girlfriend and I started dating, I was up-front about my deal-breakers: staying in the New York area, building a home centered on our shared religion, and having at least three children. She agreed in principle.

I raised the three-child point at least twice more during the relationship. Each time, I felt reassured that we were aligned. Six months in, after we had fallen in love, we began discussing timelines for engagement, marriage, and children. Because we are both 33 and fertility is a real consideration, I proposed a timeline that would make three children possible. That was when she said she had never committed to three; she was only open to it, and currently wanted two.

That hit me hard. I have no reason to think my girlfriend was being intentionally deceitful; I think we misunderstood each other, or failed to recognize the difference between being open to something and being committed to it. But I come from a big family—I’m one of five—and I want to create the same dynamic: siblings, cousins, chaos, laughter, fighting, and making up.

I clarified that serious complications—miscarriage, fetal abnormality, danger to her health—would obviously reopen the conversation. I also raised options like surrogacy, and suggested making a third child conditional on me proving myself to be the attentive husband and father I expect to be. But for her, the issue was deeper. She only recently became certain she wanted children at all, has a demanding career that she prioritizes, and wants a very individualized relationship with each child, like she has with her mother. She felt uncomfortable committing to a number she does not presently want.

After six difficult weeks, I concluded that we wanted different lives, and we ended the relationship. I am still wrestling with whether I made the right decision. Some friends and family think it is reasonable to have core deal-breakers, especially ones raised early, and that wanting at least three children is not extreme. Others think it is unfair for a man to ask a woman to commit to a specific number of children, and that the difference between two and three is not meaningful enough to end a serious relationship over.

Part of me wants to call her and accept her need for flexibility. But I worry that if we ended up having only two children because she wanted to stop, I would resent her. Had her position been clear to me at the beginning, I do not think we would have continued dating. Was I right to end the relationship, or do I have unrealistic expectations?

— Adam, 33

Adam,

You located a partner who shared your goals. Laid out deal-breakers and nonnegotiables. Checked for red flags. Agreed on deal points. And when you discovered your goals no longer aligned, you dissolved the partnership.

If what you’re after is a business arrangement, you’re proceeding swimmingly. You are a dealmaker, and you expect to get what you bargained for. Thrice-married Lee Iacocca would be proud.

But marriage is not actually a negotiation—you’ve confused it with divorce.

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My wife and I both work full-time, and I grew up around working women: My mother and my grandmothers had careers. My mother-in-law did, too. In fact, she is what you’d call an old-school feminist: educated, opinionated, independent, the kind of woman who spent decades rejecting traditional gender roles. Which is why I find her marriage so baffling.

My father-in-law is treated like someone who cannot function independently. When they visit us, he sits at the table waiting to be served. If food arrives while others are still bringing dishes from the kitchen, he simply starts eating. When he finishes, he leaves the plate there for someone else to clear. If he wants something, he asks his wife to get it. If he wakes up before her, he waits for her to get up and make breakfast. It’s honestly astonishing to watch.

What bothers me isn’t some abstract political issue about household labor. I have three boys, aged between 10 and 15. And though I’m not trying to raise my sons according to internet slogans about fairness—in fact, we’re probably more conservative than liberal in most ways—I do want them to grow up understanding that a competent adult man should know how to take care of himself, contribute to a household, and not behave like a dependent child waiting for women to orbit around him.

My kids see me cook, clean, fold laundry, and do dishes. I take them to doctor and dentist appointments because my schedule is more flexible than my wife’s. Not because I’m trying to make a statement but because that’s what functioning adults do.

Now, my oldest son is beginning to notice his grandfather’s behavior and is asking: “Why doesn’t he help?” I usually say something diplomatic like “he grew up in a different time,” but what I really think is: Because everyone around him enabled him to become spoiled and helpless.

The truth is that watching this dynamic unfold in my house makes me angry. Not occasionally irritated—genuinely angry. Partly because of the example it sets, and partly because my wife and I are both exhausted professionals and he contributes nothing, spending most of the day watching videos on his phone. Increasingly I find myself wanting to say, politely but firmly: “When you visit our house, you’re expected to participate. Clear your plate. Help carry things. Get up and get what you need.”

Am I being unreasonable? Is this something I should address directly? Or is it one of those family dynamics where keeping the peace matters more than trying to correct behavior that will realistically never change?

—Eli, 49

Dear Eli,

All marriages are idiosyncratic. Every single one “baffling” to outsiders. How can she smile while he bloviates? How does he deal with her crazy?

I sometimes imagine that, like George Washington in his lifetime, I’d never seen a bicycle. An inventor approaches me with his prototype. “This is my human-powered, two-wheeled transporter,” he says. There’s no doubt I’d have laughed, thinking this thing was obviously going to topple over and crash the moment the rider climbed on.

And yet it moves.

Despite so many glaring offenses to your ideal of parity or even your mother-in-law’s, their marriage balances, rolls forward, and works.

Which is enough for them, apparently, and ought to be for you. If you don’t like the bargain your mother-in-law has struck with your father-in-law, then I suggest you don’t marry him.

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Are some kids just mean?

As a millennial mom, I am of course influenced by Dr. Becky, who says “all kids are good inside.” I used to believe that very strongly. Lately, though, I’ve been struggling.

My son turned 5 in March and is in his last month of preschool. It is a cooperative preschool, so parents volunteer in the classroom regularly. Because of that, we see a lot of what happens day to day.

There is one boy in particular whose behavior has really shaken me. I have seen him punch, kick, and push my son. One time he pulled my son to the ground by his sweater. He has called him “stupid” and “a baby.” I’ve also seen him slap another child across the face. Other parents have witnessed similar things.

This boy actually has very strong communication skills. What I often see is him choosing another child to align with and then encouraging that child to join him in excluding, mocking, or hurting other kids. Watching aggression and bullying emerge at this age has honestly been disturbing to me.

When I first noticed this, I spoke to my son’s teachers multiple times—and their response was mostly that this is “boy behavior.” Then, during the Mother’s Day event at school, the teachers gathered the children together to sing a song, and throughout the entire performance, this child repeatedly hit my son’s head, pulled on his sweater, and tried to push him down. I assumed the boy’s mother would remove him from the group, which is what I would have done if it were my child. She did not intervene. I shouted to my son to tell the other boy to stop. My son said “stop” and the kid kept going, so my son started to hit him back.

Eventually another mother stepped in, and finally a teacher addressed the aggression—far later than felt appropriate. I talked with the staff afterward and they agreed that what happened was not okay and admitted they thought his mom might step in and stop it.

I don’t want my son to hit other kids but after this incident, I feel like my only option is to tell him it’s okay to punch this kid if he has to. I am left wondering what is wrong with this kid, and also his mom.

I understand that preschoolers hit when frustrated, dysregulated, overtired, or unable to communicate. My son is not a perfect child; he’s rough-and-tumble, and impulsive at times. But what feels different about this other boy is that he hurts people without provocation, then shows no remorse.

I think what’s hardest for me is what this experience is doing to my worldview. I don’t want to walk around believing there are “bad kids.” That feels sad and hopeless. So I keep wondering: Is this a parenting issue? A school culture issue? Temperament? Something deeper going on with this child? Or is this simply human nature showing up early?

How do I hold onto the belief that kids are good while also acknowledging that some children can behave in ways that seem intentionally cruel? And how do I help my son navigate this without teaching him either to fear other kids or to accept mistreatment as normal? Please help.

Sincerely,

A worried mom, 32

Dear Worried,

Are all kids good kids? Are all kids “good inside”? What a lovely thought, postulated by every utopian political movement since Rousseau. Of course, if children were inherently good—if man were born good—we wouldn’t need authoritative parenting. Religion could be reduced to feel-good spiritualism. We could do away with criminal laws and defund the police. And when man acted badly, we could hold society accountable for corrupting him, blame trauma for misshaping him, poverty or racism for impelling him toward vice. An entire worldview, contained in a Fabergé egg of wishful thinking.

It’s true that most kids are not psychopaths (seventh-grade girls notwithstanding). When confronted with the suffering of animals or another child, most will feel the pang of conscience. But perfectly average kids—sons and daughters of good people—possess both good and bad impulses. Which ones they act upon depends largely on discipline and teaching. Kids who are extended endless understanding and empathy without correction can become jerks, cheats, bullies, liars. They hit, kick, bite, and humiliate.

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Almost three years ago, my husband reformed his life: He quit drinking and lost a hundred pounds. He started a business, then stopped it. He got a job, and says he hates it. We had to sell our home to pay off our debts, and we now rent down the road. My husband’s cousin committed suicide days before our move, last November, and at first he was consumed by grief. Now he is increasingly dissatisfied with everything and everyone in our life, and is exhibiting controlling behavior I never used to experience with him: He doesn’t like my gigs, friends, social media consumption. We have two young sons, ages 8 and 9.

My husband exercises and meditates but kiboshed a therapy session I set up for us. He couldn’t even talk about what drew him to me in the early days. He’s tried painting, knitting, archery. He disappears for walks in nature, sometimes all day and night. He might as well have a second family, although I know he is not cheating or using drugs or alcohol while away. He tells me he cries on these walks. He also says he loves me and our sons but he hates our life.

I try to be supportive of his efforts to heal. I have tried to cushion, to absorb, to reinterpret, to wait. I have tried to love him into stability. I know he is capable of change. We don’t have grandparents or any “help” with our kids (my mother passed away), so when I recently got shift work, it forced him to be present, which has been healing for all of us.

But my fear is that we are giving our boys a playbook for disrespectful and doormat behavior. It’s not like it’s going to get easier to guide or discipline them once testosterone enters the picture. What are our sons telling themselves? I check in with them—“anything you want to talk about?”—and I do not trash-talk their father. I would suffer—and have suffered—any indignity to keep us under the same roof. I do not want a blended family. I have seen what children have to endure in the name of their parents’ “happiness.” We say children are resilient, as though they have any choice but to acquiesce.

Two things can be true: My husband is doing the best he can and it’s hurting us. Some days he does not even say good morning, or goodbye. My friends are horrified by this treatment. I am humiliated by their judgment, so I stopped sharing the details. They all left the fathers of their children. None of their mothers are dead. They just don’t understand my holding on.

Abigail: How do I keep my family intact when the pieces are broken?

—Jessica, 44

Jessica,

On my one serious attempt to treat my son’s allergies, I trucked him through a day of testing, then purchased a $300 vial of liquid the color of dehydrated urine. We were instructed to place two drops of the elixir under his tongue every night for months. But hours after we returned home, my son began yelling from the bathroom. I found him on his knees, mopping up the precious liquid with a towel.

The slippery stuff made it into every crevice in the tile and formed a sheen on the bathroom floor. Though it had fallen from the counter, the vial didn’t crack.

The pain in your letter made me think of that viscous yellow liquid, spilling out all over. And of you. You are not broken. Your children are not broken. Your pain may spill out, but you refuse to break.

Your friends have dumped the fathers of their children, and they seem flummoxed that you haven’t done likewise. They tell themselves that this was best for their kids. But our society is full of women congratulating one another for breaking up families as if it were a brave, enlightened act. Meanwhile, you witness their kids and perceive the betrayal. Tempting as it would be to join them, you look over at your little boys and summon the will to hold your family together.

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A while ago, I met a girl in class who caught my eye. I didn’t speak to her for the first few months of the semester, until she was hired by my student newspaper. When she walked into our newsroom one day, we had a pleasant interaction. I thought she was cute, and sometime in the days after, I found a pretext to give her my number. We started talking, and I found that I really enjoyed my time with her. I rarely meet anyone I get excited about at my university. She’s 18. I’m 22. This is not something I would think twice about if it weren’t for an anonymous social media app that dominates public life at my university.

This app is the real center of gravity on my campus, and reputations can be destroyed there. I’ve watched it happen to peers of mine over things way less serious than an age gap. The girl I’m talking to is very well-known in her class. If we got together, it would reach the app pretty quickly, and they wouldn’t like it. They’d label it predatory, and I’d be staring down the barrel of a true cancellation.

I know that the threat of cancellation is seldom a good reason not to do something. But it feels like this conviction is much easier to hold when the stakes are more abstract. This isn’t occurring in the public domain; it’s in the collective imagination of a very small university where I still have to live and work. The people who would judge me are not strangers on the internet. They’re my classmates and my colleagues. How does one move forward in confidence in such a scenario?

—Tom, 22

Tom,

Risk-taking is a young man’s prerogative. The suppression of risk-taking is the suppression of men.

And yet, from the moment you were little, we padded your playground and surveilled every “playdate.” We shortened recess, forbade tackle football, and berated you for showing the slightest interest in guns. Across cultures, throughout history, boys have been fascinated by tools of violence, but if you dared sketch a crossbow, we sent you home. We pummeled you with anti-bullying lectures, then—in an act of supreme cynicism—furnished your classmates with sophisticated technological tools for bullying at scale. We encouraged your generation to inform on one another and pledged to “believe women” if you ever had conflict with one. Schools lectured you about the necessity of explicit “affirmative consent,” and warned you of the dire consequences of failing to obtain it, before you ever held a girl’s hand. No prior generation of young men was regarded with comparable hostility—tarred by the sins of Harvey Weinstein when you were 12.

And now that you’re a man, you’re expected to tear off your helmet and toss it to the wind like so much caution. As if a lifetime of conditioning could be so easily undone.

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My sister has chosen to have a baby on her own using a sperm donor. I am excited to have a niece or nephew, and for my children to have a cousin.

My parents, who are in their late 70s, are stepping in to help co-parent with my sister. While she has a very good job, she is moving in with my parents indefinitely. She says she needs my parents’ support because she has to maintain her social life. She can’t take a baby on a date, she told me.

My parents have not babysat for my kids since my youngest was born, almost three years ago. I live an hour from them. When I asked them to watch my kids last year so my husband and I could celebrate our anniversary, they said no. They were just too busy.

My parents paid for my sister’s fertility treatments. To make it fair, they gave me the same amount of money. This was appreciated, since paying for day care eats up most of my salary. But why do I receive help only when my sister needs something?

I don’t understand why my sister would want to move back in with my parents, or why my parents are encouraging her to do so. I don’t understand why my parents would help raise my sister’s child when they are not willing to even babysit mine.

How do I get past this? My sister and I have always been very different people. I don’t want the same things she wants, so why does it matter what my parents are giving her? I have a great life. I don’t want to be angry. I don’t want to feel like a stranger in my own family.

—Megan, 41

Megan,

Which one of your kids is your favorite?

Think hard and tell the truth. Which one do you love the most?

You know, as well as I do, that these are absurd, unanswerable questions. You have the kid who shares your sense of humor, the one you can tease. The one who is easily affectionate and the one who’s full of earnest complaints. The one who is proudly self-sufficient and the one who comes to you with puppy eyes. The one you worry about and the one who puts you at ease. And the descriptions shift their referents on a merry-go-round and none of it corresponds to the measure of your love.

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My husband and I have been married for just under a year. When we tied the knot, we agreed that we wanted to wait a few years to have kids, because both of us felt strongly that we shouldn’t start a family until we were able to support ourselves. But we’re both starting to get the “should we have a baby now” itch.

We’re not currently self-sufficient. I am in medical school, and he is in law school. My husband has an amazing job lined up for after school, and we have a definite plan to reach self-sufficiency in the next three years. We’re both feeling impatient to start a family, but my husband is always the voice of reason. He reminds me, whenever I bring it up, why we decided to wait.

Another factor is that we’re near our parents, who would be helping to support us financially, if we had a baby. They would be so happy to have a grandchild nearby: All our nieces and nephews live far away. I know we’re young, and I have a while yet before my fertility starts waning, but I just feel so lucky to have a partner who I want to start a family with and parents (and in-laws) who are healthy and close. Am I crazy for not wanting to wait?

—Claire, 24

Claire,

Seven weeks after I took the New York Bar Exam, I met my husband. He lived in Los Angeles. Even accepting a date with a guy who lived on the opposite coast—a place I’d never visited and where I knew no one—risked taking a Sharpie to all my well-made plans.

I was sworn into the New York Bar six months later, packed up my things, and moved to Southern California, where—I was assured by everyone—there was almost no legal work to be had. Did I want to practice entertainment law? No, no I did not. Would my New York Bar membership be useful where I was headed? Also, no. Was I aware that I would have to take the dreaded California Bar Exam if I wanted to work there? I thanked my co-clerks for the hot tip.

Friends wished me luck in the way Marco Polo’s must have—certain they’d never see or hear from me again. I didn’t have much in the way of a satisfying response to offer any of them. Because I sensed something I couldn’t yet put into words: that there was another, higher-order logic, not reducible to a flowchart, inscribed in the human heart.

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Dear Abigail,

Can I tell my stepdaughter that her mom is a bitch?

Three years ago, I fell in love with an amazing guy and his delightful 10-year-old daughter. I never had any kids of my own, and I had thought that ship had sailed, so I feel so incredibly lucky to have this wonderful little family in my life. I also know how lucky I am that his co-parenting relationship is relatively drama-free. In fact, for the first couple of years, his ex was barely in the picture.

Technically, my partner and his ex share custody 50-50. In practice, though, he has been the primary parent, taking care of all the practical parenting stuff—from doctors’ appointments to teacher conferences—while his ex was out “finding herself” on his dime. Her much-younger boyfriend didn’t like kids, so she often only saw her daughter a couple of days a week, and spent her weekends basically pretending that she didn’t have one.

Now, she has a different boyfriend, who apparently likes kids, so suddenly she wants to spend more time with her daughter. Obviously, we understand and appreciate that a kid needs her mom, but it’s really hard on my partner that Mom now gets to be the “fun” parent.

At Mom’s house, his daughter never has to do anything she doesn’t want to do. Mom doesn’t make her do her homework. Mom doesn’t make her practice her flute. Mom doesn’t make her take a shower. Of course my partner’s daughter wants to make up for lost time with Mom, but it’s painful watching him have to hear about how much better everything is at Mom’s house.

His daughter has no idea why she spent more time with dad in the beginning. She doesn’t know her mom didn’t WANT to take her when she walked out on their family. She doesn’t know her mom cheated on her dad, broke his heart, and then took him for every penny he had. Nor should she. I’m pretty sure it’s better that she doesn’t know any of this. Isn’t it?

But I’ve gotta tell you, sometimes I’m nearly biting my tongue off to not tell her all of this. I wish I could tell her the reason her mom can take her skiing and horseback riding and on trips to the Bahamas: Dad pays for all of it.

Abigail, please talk me down off this ledge before I say something I’ll regret, something I’m pretty sure won’t actually help anything, but will just stir up a bunch of drama where it need not be.

Thanks,
Phoebe, 52

Phoebe,

For years, I had doubts about the King Solomon story—the one where two women fight over the maternity of a baby. Was it credible that any woman could claim to love a child and then, in the next breath, cheer Solomon’s solution—that he slice the child in two?

And then along you come, Phoebe, claiming to love this little girl, willing to see her torn apart. If I hadn’t received other letters of a similar vein, I would not have believed someone who professes to care for a child could ask: “Can I tell my stepdaughter that her mom is a bitch?”

The fact is, Phoebe, you are in ample if not precisely good company. When it comes to children, adult loyalties, jealousies, and desires lead to gruesome moral blindness. Often, as in the King Solomon story, such sightlessness afflicts those who prioritize their own grievances at a child’s expense, as any divorce lawyer will attest.

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My 7-year-old daughter has a good group of first-grade friends at our local public school. I am casually friendly with most of their moms. This week, my daughter reported to us, while giggling uncomfortably, that one of the little boys in her friend group told her he doesn’t like Jewish people. We are Jewish. But so far, she’s been okay.

I know this boy’s mother—I see her regularly at various school events, and he has been to our house. My friends have told me to call her, and to give her the benefit of the doubt. My friends point out their own sons have made offensive remarks that didn’t originate from their families. My own 5-year-old son said something offensive about another race recently, and got multiple talking-tos, to correct this belief. (He said Mexican people had bad breath, based on a person he knows.) Another friend pointed out her son wrote the N-word, and she was completely mortified.

But somehow a boy saying “I don’t like Jewish people” feels different, and thus I am disinclined to give the family the benefit of the doubt. My inclination is to do nothing, and let my daughter decide if she wants to be friends with this boy. What do you think?

—Rachel, 39

Rachel,

It is a truth rarely acknowledged that the most tiresome aspect of parenting is the advice showered on you by other moms. Newbies to the job themselves, they nonetheless issue proclamations with the confidence of Caesar. But in this instance, neither you nor your friends are seeing things clearly.

Rachel, the boy who says he “doesn’t like Jewish people”—he’s 7.

Based on the stray comment of a boy who just learned to tie his shoes, you’ve invited his entire family to set up residence inside your head.

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To get right to the point: Are men meant to build empires, and women meant to change diapers?

My wife and I have four children under 7. We work very flexible 40-hour weeks, and financially we’re very comfortable. Our nonwork hours are filled with family activities that we either do together or divide up more or less evenly. On good days, it’s delightful and rewarding. On bad days, it’s aggravating and draining.

I’m writing because my work is currently taking a back seat to family. I’m well-known in my field, and I often feel that I could really “put a dent in the universe” if I went all-in with my career. My three sisters have all married men who put their own career goals far above children and family. Nothing is more important than their work: They rarely attend our family holiday gatherings, barely change diapers, and if their kids are sick—well, that’s too bad, but my sisters better figure it out, because there’s an unmissable investor meeting in Dubai.

I know there are voices in the modern conservative movement who would say all is right with their arrangement: They are “men being men,” valiant warriors on the bloody battlefield of commerce. And my sisters, left with all the family responsibilities, are “women being women.”

I vacillate between two extremes. My brothers-in-law aren’t exactly Andrew Tate, but I often think they are self-absorbed jerks who will regret their priorities later in life. But on, say, my fourth day staying home from work with a vomiting toddler, I’m deeply envious of them. It seems to me that my sisters have sacrificed so much for their families, but their husbands get to do whatever they want, as long as they’re “grinding.” They get to enjoy roaring professional success, jet around the world, and be absolved of essentially all tedious childcare responsibilities. What a hack!

I think about the pretty substantial things I could accomplish if I devoted myself to work like they do. And I wonder: Have I been poisoned by progressive gender ideas? Have I emasculated myself by limiting the hours that I work, and spending most of my free time doing sing-alongs and playing football with my kids? How does a man think about—and weigh—the impact they could have on their families versus the impact they could have professionally?

I’m not a very woke person, but I know there’s no shortage of right-wing influencers who would call me a “pussy” or worse, a “cuck,” because I’m playing dress-up and cooking with my daughters at 5 p.m., and I’m not out there crushing it every day. Maybe my brothers-in-law see me this way as well. Does a “real man” toss the kids to his wife, jump on a plane, and set his sights on building an empire?

Thank you so much.

Martin, 44

Dear Martin,

Hundreds of thousands of American GIs marched off to World War II with a copy of Betty Smith’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn buried in their rucksacks. The coming-of-age story—let’s face it, a girls’ book—was a favorite among our male troops because 11-year-old Francie Nolan’s loneliness and grit touched them deeply, filling their hearts with the simple beauty of family life.

The young men who dog-eared those pages would go on to defeat the Third Reich in Western Europe and liberate Dachau and Buchenwald.

Like a lot of Americans my age, both of my grandfathers fought in the war—one in the Army Air Corps and the other in the U.S. Navy. Both were proud and eager to serve a country they loved—and returned to my grandmothers as adoring and attentive husbands and dads. They helped the kids with their homework. Neither was ever caught bragging about how many women he had slept with or how much weight he could bench-press.

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I have been happily married for seven years, and I’ve known my husband for eight and a half. Like any couple, we’ve had our ups and downs, but overall we’ve grown closer, while building a life together and raising our three young children.

This week, completely out of the blue, I received an email from someone I don’t know. She said she felt I deserved to know something important—that over 10 years ago, my husband sexually assaulted her.

I spoke to my husband immediately. He told me that around that time, he had a brief relationship with this woman, and they hooked up a few times. He said she became unstable and obsessive, and that he cut off contact. According to him, she later accused him of rape, which he firmly denies.

Understandably, this has shaken me.

I trust my husband. Our marriage is built on that foundation. He has earned my complete trust in a thousand ways in our time together and has always been a man of upstanding character. I know in his heart he is a kind and good man.

And yet, I can’t ignore the pit in my stomach.

I’m torn about what to do next. Should I respond to her and hear her side of the story? Or is trusting my husband enough?

I don’t want to invite unnecessary chaos or give attention to someone who may be unstable. But I also don’t want to dismiss something serious or risk being naive.

—A deeply conflicted wife, 35

Dear Deeply Conflicted Wife,

A brilliant friend, a fellow law student at the time, once pointed out to me an ontological unfairness in criminal law. “You ever notice that the criminal code mostly punishes male-typical forms of violence?” he said. “Female-typical social violence—rumor, cruel innuendo, ostracism, alienating friends from you—largely goes ignored?” It was the sort of unconventional insight that came at me sideways and stuck. Because, of course, he was right.

Pop another guy in the nose, and you’ve committed an assault. You face expulsion from school or even a criminal record. But spread a devastating rumor, level a false accusation—and you can inflict bottomless, ongoing anguish on your target without anyone calling the cops on you. You’ll rarely even suffer reputational consequences yourself.

Over a decade after she briefly dated your husband, a woman has detonated a dirty bomb in your family. Her conduct will leave no physical trace. But by inviting you to mistrust your husband, the emotional pain and havoc visited on your family are potentially limitless. Do you imagine she is honestly trying to protect you or your children from your husband of nearly eight years? Does that seem even remotely credible? Don’t lie to yourself: It isn’t.

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Dear Abigail,

My parents are both alcoholics. They pull each other into benders several times a week. This was not a huge problem when they lived out of state, but a few years ago, they moved to the town my wife and I live in, to be closer to our three kids. Long story short, after they had several drunk interactions with my children—even after I explicitly asked them to not be drunk around their grandkids—my wife and I decided we had to have some boundaries. One of them was that we didn’t want them to drive the kids anywhere.

When I sat them down to tell them, I was direct, but not mean. I explained that we love them, and want them in our lives, and want our kids to have a good relationship with them—but due to their relationship with alcohol, we have to draw this red line. They were hurt and upset by this, and our relationship has not really recovered. This was almost two years ago.

We try to have them over for dinner once a month, but they often say they are busy. We try to invite them on days out with the kids, but they always say no. When they suggest things we could do together, we always say yes, but recently they have stopped doing this, too. They live five minutes away and never see their grandkids. This baffles me.

My parents both cut off their relationships with their parents when I was young. I do not want to do the same thing—but it seems that by creating one boundary I have essentially done this. Trying to repair the situation has been emotionally exhausting. But I’m also ready to hear that, actually, the problem is me. So do your worst!

Thanks in advance,

Evan, 39

Dear Abigail,

I am due to give birth to my first child at the end of April. My mother is coming to help us for roughly a week when the baby is born. This was less something we asked for and more something that was foisted on us. She is insistent on being there as soon as we come back from the hospital. The main problem I have with this is my mom smokes weed from a vape pen basically all day. How do I talk to her about the fact that she cannot do that around the baby or even in our house? I want to set a boundary that I don’t want her to bring the vape pen when she visits us because I don’t want to be worried about secondhand smoke.

From,

Natasha, 29

Evan and Natasha,

Some of us tread up the mountain of adulthood relatively sure-footed, thanks to support from good parents and stable families. You did it with hundred-pound sandbags strapped to your shoulders: a fearsome act of mental toughness.

The reward is the families you have built and the honor of that accomplishment.

The price, of course, is the pain.

I’ll address your letters together because your predicaments are similar, and because it may be heartening to know that you’re not alone.

Evan, you tried to preserve your parents’ feelings. But you drew a line at letting them risk the lives of your children. Drunks have an unmistakable tendency to wrap cars around telephone poles. Your parents know this.

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My dad passed in 2022. He wasn’t perfect—nobody is—but he was a good man. My mom, who’s 64 now, was understandably a wreck for years after she became a widow. She moved states to be closer to family, including me, and settled an hour away from my house. My wife and I would try to visit her every week, or invite her over. She often complained it wasn’t enough, but we tried to be understanding; being lonely is hard. My brother lives out of state but did what he could to try to be present and in touch with her. We encouraged her for years to make friends and even consider dating again—something she was initially 1,000 percent against.

Eventually she did start making friends, and that was going really well for a while. Then she started dating, and I thought that was good. She met a guy who’s 71 that she wanted to “go steady” with, and since then she has kind of gone silent on my brother and I. Neither of us are hurt or offended; we’re glad she’s no longer lonely and seems happy.

This guy is a problem, though. He filibusters every conversation, talking about himself, and is entirely uninterested in anyone else. He makes outlandish claims, like that he has cured his own diabetes and his congestive heart failure. He says that a 90-year-old woman pressed on his gums and cured his sciatica. As for his career, apparently Walter Isaacson should be interviewing him, because he’s more accomplished than Steve Jobs. When we get together as a family, I’m not talking to my mom—I’m listening to this guy spout off his pathological, medically impossible lies. His behavior is intolerable to a point that attempting to spend time with my mom feels like torture, because he’s always in the picture.

My wife, and my brother’s wife, also find his behavior outlandish. This isn’t a case of my brother and I begrudging our mom for being with someone new—we’re pleased she’s not alone—but I feel like I need to keep my mom at arm’s length so I don’t have to be exposed to this guy and his narcissism. I’m a Christian and I believe in the commandment that you should honor your father and mother, but this guy’s stunningly fantastical claims make it impossible to follow that commandment.

What can I do to maintain a good relationship with my mom in light of all this? If this guy could tone things down, it would probably be okay, but every time we see him there’s a new ridiculous story. I haven’t brought this up with my mom because I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but things as they stand now are unsustainable.

Joshua, 42

Joshua,

A horse walks into a bar.

The bartender says, “Why the long face?”

The horse replies: “I have AIDS.”

That I’m laughing, even now, having no idea why, is part of what makes this absurd joke so great.

For some reason, God or the universe gifted us this remarkable ability—to find humor in the ridiculous. To choose not to take everything so seriously all the time. This wonderful oasis of the soul lets us sidestep so many negative emotions: outrage, anger, hurt, indignation, and disappointment. We can refuse them all and instead laugh.

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Lately I have been wondering if I am making a mistake by deciding not to have kids—usually after reading an essay in The Free Press about how important kids are and how no one is having kids anymore! I really don’t think I’ve been influenced by a larger societal trend or the economy or millennial climate fears or the desire to put my career over motherhood. I have never connected with the idea of having kids; even as a child, I never saw it as something in my future. Getting married—definitely, but not kids. The idea has always given me an instant feeling of panic.

I’m not particularly career motivated, so that hasn’t been a factor in my decision. My partner feels equally ambivalent about kids. We have friends and family with kids, and I’m always happy to spend time with them, unlike the child-free people I see on Reddit who seem to hate children. But even after spending time with my favorite kid, I don’t feel like I’m missing out. I think my partner and I will have a fulfilling life pursuing our hobbies and careers. I do worry about being lonely in older age or being alone if, God forbid, something happens to him. But having kids just to have company when I’m old seems selfish!

I also have lifelong mental health struggles and a family history of mental health struggles, which also makes me worry about postpartum depression or subjugating a child to having a mother with spells of depression. But overall, when it comes down to it, I’ve just never wanted kids! I keep waiting for something to change, but it never does.

Now that my partner and I will get married soon (probably 2027), I’m worried I’m overlooking something. I’m also worried I will change my mind at some point, and he won’t. Or vice versa! I wouldn’t want to leave him; I think I would choose him over kids. I want to figure this out before we get married. I have talked to my partner, but he isn’t stressed about this, like I am. Have I fallen for some sort of liberal propaganda? Am I making a huge mistake?

Thank you,

Childless, 29

Dear Childless,

In any high school class, there is a small subset of girls who always knew they wanted to be mothers. You know the sort: They immediately notice any small child in the vicinity, and engage him breathlessly, often at eye level. They often get married principally to have children—almost any nice guy will do. Unsurprisingly, many of these women become teachers.

There are also the girls who know, from a young age, that family life isn’t for them—a far smaller subset.

And then there is a vastly larger category: Those of us who assumed we’d have a family one day, but mostly, we wanted to fall in love and get married. It was only after we did those things that any vague sense that we wanted kids turned acute. Only after we had a husband we loved did we want to give him children, a family, a legacy. Only then did we begin to envision him with a child propped up around the back of his neck, tiny hands gripped gently by his giant palms.

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I am lucky to have a mother and father who have been active and loving parents throughout my life. They were not the type of parents to “phone it in.” They cheered for us on the sidelines at our sporting events, attended our plays and performances, and appreciated us as individuals.

The one struggle I’ve had is that my mother seems incapable of accepting my sexuality as a gay man. I came out over a decade ago, and while it was a bumpy ride at first, it felt like we had made progress in the last few years. However, when I shared with her that I want to have a family one day with my current partner, she told me that she didn’t believe two men could raise children.

This is despite the fact that I make a great living, have a committed relationship with my partner, and am eager to be a dedicated and loving parent to my future children. She’s also expressed several times that she longs to be a grandmother, so it felt particularly painful to realize that she doesn’t want grandchildren from me. When I try to address her resistance, she invokes her faith as the reason for her struggle.

I know having two dads is different from a dad and a mom, but I’m confident in the life I could provide for my future children. And while I want my children to have a close relationship with their grandparents, it’s hard to imagine that will be possible if my parents don’t even believe in my ability to raise kids. What do I do?

—Chase, 30, Philadelphia

Chase,

At the heart of your letter, unmissable as the pain, is the fact that you are still asking your mother to be thrilled with everything about you. You even ask her to bless your nebulous aspirations to have a family “one day.”

I can feel the response you seem to be seeking from me: Have a conversation with your mother about this. Let her know it hurts you that she doesn’t embrace you fully as a gay man and especially that she doesn’t think two men could make good parents. If she can’t accept you as you truly are, then you can’t have her in your life and the lives of your future kids.

But I’m not going to tell you any of that because adulthood isn’t given, Chase. It’s taken.

At 30, it’s time to take it.

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I’m turning 36 next month, and in a loving relationship with a man who is 31. Though he had dated before meeting me, I am his first official relationship. When we began dating, I was very clear about my timeline: I wanted to be engaged and starting a family within two years. I told him that if he wasn’t ready for that, we should part ways rather than grow attached under false assumptions. He said he wanted those things.

This June, we will have been together for two years. A proposal has still not come.

Last spring, we spoke explicitly about getting engaged, but a few months later he told me he needed more time—another year or so—and offered to pay for me to freeze my eggs, which we are doing this month.

Since then, however, the goalposts have continued to move. He now says that—although he wants these things with me—he isn’t ready to move in together, get engaged, or have children, and that he needs at least two more years. When I ask why he isn’t ready, the reasons change: sometimes it’s work, sometimes finances, sometimes needing more independence, sometimes simply “not yet.”

Three of his close friends are currently pregnant or have just had babies, and this summer we’re attending two of his friends’ weddings. Over the holidays, his mother told me—intentionally within his earshot—that she wants to help plan our wedding. He smiled when he heard it. He seems genuinely moved by the lives his peers are building, and often talks about valuing family. He comes from an immigrant family and is self-made—the youngest partner at his trading firm. And he is the primary provider for his mother, who is a single parent, supporting her and his 20-year-old sister.

I see his tenderness, especially with his sister. He’s even said that when we have a child, he hopes it’s a girl. Yet none of this translates into forward motion for us.

What makes this decision even harder is the broader dating landscape. Many of my close friends—women my age—are still on apps, searching for a partner who genuinely loves and respects them. I see how difficult it can be. Knowing this makes me appreciate what I have with him, and it raises the stakes of walking away from a relationship that is loving and stable—even if it feels stalled.

My fear is not that he doesn’t love me but that he may never feel “ready”—and that my waiting will quietly cost me the chance to have the family I want. I love him deeply. I genuinely believe he would be a wonderful father. If I could, I would start a family tomorrow. But at what point do I accept that his timeline may never align with mine? When does love require staying—and when does self-respect require leaving to search for a partner who is ready now?

Sincerely,

Jane, 35

Jane,

Every week, people write to me. Many of their predicaments challenge me. Some confound me. Others surprise. Yours is rarest of all: It fills me with horror.

If a man you’ve dated for two years asks you to undergo invasive surgery so that he can take indefinitely more time to decide whether he wants to marry you, he is a manipulative man or a very weak one—in practice, those are often the same.

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I am a mother of three and a physician, married to a loving and supportive husband. I work part-time—24 hours a week—which allows me to contribute financially while also being present for my family. I enjoy my work, and I know I would not thrive as a full-time stay-at-home parent.

That said, I am struggling with a familiar tension many working mothers face: being the default parent and default homemaker on top of having a job. On the two evenings each week when I get home late, my husband often calls in a panic asking what to feed the kids. I feel guilty for not planning ahead, then resentful for feeling guilty at all. Why am I still responsible for dinner planning on nights when I’m not even home?

I usually plan our meals weekly, but some weeks it feels overwhelming—especially with picky children—and I let it slide. When that happens, weeknight dinners become reactive and stressful. I feel pulled in multiple directions and frustrated by the sense that I am supposed to be everything to everyone, even though I know that’s impossible.

I find myself wondering what the right solution is. Do I change my schedule further so I’m always home in the evenings, satisfying the “good mother” my conscience seems to demand? Do I set a firmer boundary and make it clear that my husband is responsible for dinner on those two nights? I would like to work a bit more to bring in additional income, but I don’t feel I can do that while this tension remains unresolved. Hiring help would ease the strain, but it isn’t currently within our budget.

What should I do?

—Camilla

Camilla,

When I was 31, I took a trip to Germany with my husband to escape a misery that wouldn’t let go. We’d been married only two years, and for the second of those, I’d lost a series of pregnancies. Sadness ran through me like plasma. God could have sent an angel to inform me that I would soon be a mother, but like the Biblical Sarah, I would have laughed in his face.

My husband hoped the trip would lift my spirits. But except for a few lighthearted moments—when a barkeep in Garmisch-Partenkirchen told us sincerely that the worst thing Hitler ever did was combine Garmisch with Partenkirchen—I mostly remember the rain.

Only after we returned and found a great fertility doctor did the gloom lift. Within a year, I was pregnant—with twins—which felt like unimaginable good fortune. Fifteen years later, people still ask me if caring for twins was “really hard.” I don’t remember it that way. Hard is miscarriage. Two babies you never believed you’d have? That’s windfall.

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