Carrie B.

Carrie is young, but she lives an old life. Still in her mid-twenties, she’s married and has been bitten by the mom bug. In fact, the bottom drawer of her dresser is lined with stacks of green, yellow and white socks and onesies from the Baby Gap.

She plays the role of perfect wife – bakes cookies (while wearing a pinstriped apron), cooks delicious meals, cleans the house, and folds the laundry. Before her husband leaves for work in the morning, she gives him a peck on the cheek and locks the door behind him.

Her life is something out of a movie. But like all movies, there’s always a twist. Carrie closes the door behind her husband every morning, and starts to cry. Sometimes, she sobs, and other days, it’s only a tear running down her cheek. Her life, as picture-perfect as it seems to her neighbours, her friends, and her families, is far from perfect to her.

Carrie met her now-husband when they were both third-year university students – he was a History major, and she was studying Political Science. Their paths crossed when they wound up in the same Intro to Law course. She sat at the front of the class and always had the right answer. He sat directly behind her, competing for the higher grade. They began studying together, both scored 94 per cent on their final exam, and walked down the aisle three years later.

Now, Carrie’s husband is a lawyer at a downtown city firm. On the mornings where she manages to pull herself together, she makes her usual breakfast of half a grapefruit, with a handful of granola sprinkled over half a cup of organic yogurt. She doesn’t work – she doesn’t need too with her husbands’ salary.

But she wants to.

Her goal was to work with government affairs. She wanted to commute in busy rush-hour traffic, have her own office with a big desk, and have people depend on her for her qualifications, experience, and education. Not for her cooking abilities. Although they would come in handy at office potlucks. She wanted to bring home her briefcase at night and finish her work at home.

On the days where Carrie leans against the door and sobs, she runs a warm bath and soaks in coconut-scented bubble bath – something exotic. She cleans up, puts on a fresh face of tasteful makeup, and ventures out to the mall to buy house gadgets or more neutral-coloured cardigans to add to her collection.  Retail-therapy.

On her busier days, Carries does the grocery shopping in between loads of laundry. She takes out her tortoise-shell glasses and reads the label of her organic products. She plans out the week’s meals in advance and buys all the necessary ingredients. There’s never any junk food in her cart. Her modest high-heels click as she strolls down the aisles.

By the time her husband arrives home, usually just in time for a 7 p.m. dinner, the groceries and laundry have been put away. He kisses her on the cheek, she asks about his day. He takes off his suit jacket and lays it over the arm of a living room chair – she picks it up, takes it upstairs to their bedroom, and hangs it in his closet. She takes a minute to stare out the bedroom window and fixates on the street lights. She takes a deep breath before heading back downstairs - dinner is served.