I feel a swell of something I can’t put words to when he comes in to help me make dinner, and awkwardly peels the potatoes with his long fingers, which are more accustomed to turning pages, or holding a pen, or a cigarette. Those fingers, I remember how I fell in love with them that summer, licking the salty taste off of them when we fell into bed after a day on the beach, enjoying the sensation of my tongue against their flat sides, along the ridges of the nails. He cut himself so often when we first got married. Have you never peeled a vegetable? I used to rib him. He’s getting better, at least he no longer takes off half the flesh with the skin. Next I’ll teach him to score and salt the duck fat, on our way to lessons in roasting a chicken. Honestly, you’d think he’d never given a thought to how the food got from the butcher to his plate. His mother did everything for him. Not to judge her, and she’s had her share of hardship, but the only way to make a better world is to bring up our sons as feminists. We make all the people, we should be able to make better ones.