Chapter 2: From Rust Belt to Boise

Ethan and I both come from a tiny Rust Belt town in Ohio.

Picture a place where the grocery store and the high school sit across from the only gas station for ten miles, and where everyone knows if you skip church two Sundays in a row. We grew up with the same small-town hunger—to claw our way out, to prove we were more than the zip code stamped on our birth certificates.

We’re the products of families obsessed with academics—where relentless studying was the only way out. Through sheer determination, we aced the SATs, each earning a bachelor’s from a solid state university and a master’s from a top-tier school.

That meant nights fueled by cold pizza, the rattle of old radiators in campus apartments, and the silent pressure of knowing our families were watching every GPA update. Sometimes I think we survived grad school on caffeine and pure willpower alone.

After graduation, we both entered the public sector. Starting at the bottom, we worked our way up, step by step, eventually establishing ourselves in Boise, Idaho, where we had no connections.

Our first year in Boise, we lived in a one-bedroom off Vista Avenue, eating more microwaved burritos than I care to remember. No family, no network, just ambition and a dog-eared copy of Dave Ramsey’s book to keep us company.

Now, we’re both department heads, respected in our circles, with cars and homes of our own. Our 401(k)s and savings are enough to cover our mortgages.

We’ve even graduated from Craigslist furniture to a Pottery Barn sofa—Ethan jokes it’s our first adult purchase. I joke it’ll survive the next housing crash.

In short, we achieved worldly success the most traditional, meritocratic, and least shortcut-laden way possible in America, making a leap in social class by mainstream standards.

Sometimes I wonder if my parents even recognize the woman I’ve become—someone who uses words like "portfolio" and "equity" in regular conversation.

This year, Ethan and I celebrated two more milestones.

The first came early in the year: he was promoted to a leadership role at a city-owned utility, with his salary and benefits multiplying several times over.

Suddenly, his inbox was full of congratulations and LinkedIn requests from people who wouldn’t have remembered his name two years ago.

The other was that I became pregnant.

Yes, I only got pregnant after six years of marriage.

It’s the sort of fact people tiptoe around in family group chats—"Any news?"—never daring to say what they really mean.

Ethan is the only son in three generations, and his family has a history of fertility issues—meaning he had little chance of fathering a child after thirty. Our struggle to conceive was no easier than our climb to establish ourselves.

The process felt like a second job—tracking cycles, doctor visits, silent tears in the car after disappointing appointments. We never talked about it with anyone. Small towns remember everything, and neither of us wanted to become fodder for someone’s coffee shop gossip.

Fortunately, two months ago, in the first spring after Ethan turned thirty, I finally got pregnant.

I remember the cherry blossoms outside our apartment and the way the air smelled sweet the morning I saw the plus sign on the stick. I sat on the edge of the tub and just stared, hardly daring to breathe.

When I received the test results, Ethan—who almost never showed emotion—hugged me tightly.

He broke down, shoulders shaking, laughing and crying into my hair like he was a kid again.

It was the only time I’d ever seen him really fall apart. His shoulders shook, and he laughed through tears, burying his face in my hair like we were twenty-two again.