I think about this a lot. I mean, who gets to decide whose time is more valuable? Who actually gets to *decide* that? Because it feels like a decision has already been made, out there in the ether, and I wasn’t consulted. Not that I ever expected to be, I suppose. That’s not how the world works, not for women of my generation anyway. You just… fall into line. Or you make your own line, but then you’re alone on it. Anyway. It was never an explicit thing, of course. No one ever said, “Hey, you don’t have children, so your evenings are free for us to exploit.” Not in those words. But the implication, the *understanding*, was always there. Especially as an architect. The hours are demanding at the best of times, we all know that. But when you’re the one without a sick toddler, without a school run, without a family dinner to rush home for… well. Suddenly your time becomes infinitely expandable. It stretches, like some kind of viscous, unpleasant taffy, to fill whatever gap arises. I remember one Tuesday, it was well past seven. The office was quiet, just the hum of the servers and the distant city noise. I was hunched over a drawing, trying to fix a structural issue that had popped up unexpectedly, something Martin had missed. Martin, bless his heart, had called in that morning, voice thick with apology, explaining little Chloe had a fever. Again. And Sarah from accounting, her youngest had some sort of stomach bug, so she’d left at three. Which meant the budget revisions, usually her domain, were now… mine. And the deadline for the Riverwalk proposal was Friday, absolutely non-negotiable. I just kept thinking, “It’s fine. It’s fine. I’m here anyway.” But it wasn’t fine. Not really. I didn't have anywhere urgent to be, that’s true. My husband, bless him, would have dinner on the table. A nice shepherd's pie, probably. He’s a good cook, always was. But it wasn’t about *having* somewhere to be. It was about *choosing* where to be. Or, more accurately, choosing not to be. Not to be in the office, under fluorescent lights, correcting someone else’s mistake, because their personal life took precedence. Because it *had* to take precedence. And mine… mine just didn’t. The thing is, I chose not to have children. It wasn’t an accident, wasn’t a medical impossibility, wasn’t a regret. It was a conscious decision, made with my husband after many long, thoughtful conversations. We wanted a different kind of life. A life focused on our careers, on travel, on each other. And I never, not once, felt a pang of guilt about that decision. Not until I realized that by choosing *not* to have children, I had inadvertently signed myself up for the perpetual ‘fill-in-the-gap’ role at work. The reliable one. The one whose evenings were always fair game. I mean, it’s not that I begrudge my colleagues their sick children. Of course not. Parenthood is… it’s a whole different ballgame. I’ve seen it. The exhaustion, the worry, the sheer logistical nightmare of it all. I understand. Intellectually, I understand. But emotionally? There’s this flicker of… resentment. A tiny, hot spark that ignites when I’m still at my desk at eight o’clock, the sky outside a bruised purple, and I know everyone else is home, dealing with snotty noses or bedtime stories. And I’m just… here. Alone. It’s almost like, because I didn't create a family, I wasn’t entitled to a personal life of my own. As if my free time was just… unclaimed territory, waiting for someone else’s emergency to colonize it. And for years, I just let it happen. I never complained. Never pushed back. Because what would I say? “My time is valuable too, even if I’m just going home to read a book and listen to jazz?” It sounded so… indulgent. Selfish, even. Compared to a child’s fever? No contest. And now, looking back, from this vantage point of retirement, I wonder if it really was the right way to think. If we, as a society, have somehow decided that only certain kinds of personal lives are worthy of protection. The ones with little humans attached. And the rest of us? We’re just… expandable. It’s not that I don’t believe in community, in helping each other out. Of course I do. But there’s a line, isn’t there? A point where assistance becomes exploitation. I just wish I’d seen it more clearly then. Wished I’d… I don’t even know what I wished for. Whatever. It’s done now. But the thought still lingers. Whose time is it, anyway? And why did mine always feel like it belonged to everyone else?