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I met Tom at a bonfire hosted by a friend of mine. That night, he sent me a message, and the conversation hasn't ended nearly four years later. We became an item when I separated from my now-deceased ex-husband. When Tom said he was a carpenter, I thought of artisan furniture in quaint New England shops. The reality was that he worked in concrete and did hard, manual labor that ruined his knees and led to arthritis in his mids.
My family likes to say we're a union family — my great-grandmother Maida was a dressmaker whose organizing career took her to Africa, England, and Turkey to advocate for labor rights. Now, we are rather white-collar. My granddad — Maida's son — was an attorney and my grandmother led a foundation. I went to private schools and toured the country performing slam poetry with my mother. I spent my 20s hopping around the country before having kids in my 30s.
This delayed my career. In my mids, I began writing and returned to school. My writing career had just begun when Tom and I became acquainted. The first time he told me he'd been laid off , I told him I was sorry. He wasn't. He told me all jobs in the trades end eventually, and layoff is an inevitable part of the process. This was new to me — most jobs, I've worked a few years until I quit.
As I finished undergrad, became a serious journalist, and began my master's degree, the only thing changing in his world was the addition of me and my children. His work remained the same. A job. A layoff. Another job. I was doing all new things: teaching public speaking to college freshmen, interviewing authors , learning about artificial intelligence for my thesis. Before my last semester of graduate school, I accepted a senior leadership job at a nonprofit.
