After ten years of marriage, I want everything to be split fairly… even now, it still matters. Ten years is not a small thing.

For ten years, I woke up before my husband, Russell Whitaker, in our townhouse in Arlington, Virginia, and I structured every detail of his life so that his path upward would never encounter friction. I scheduled his investor meetings, responded to emails he considered beneath his time, arranged his flights to New York and San Francisco, and memorized the preferences of board members who barely remembered my name.

For ten years, I organized school calendars for our children, Caleb and Harper, negotiated with contractors when the plumbing failed, and refinanced our mortgage when interest rates shifted.

For ten years, I postponed my own career in corporate finance because Russell once held my hands in our small apartment in Richmond and told me that one of us needed to be fully present at home if the other was going to build something extraordinary.

I believed him.

On a Thursday evening in early October, while I placed grilled salmon and steamed asparagus on the dining table that I had assembled myself when money was tight, Russell spoke without lifting his eyes from his phone.