Page 75 of Buttons

I find the appropriate folder and click through to a file I haven’t opened in years: “Elowen_Analysis.doc.”

My finger hovers over the trackpad. Do I really need to do this? Haven’t I punished myself enough?

No, I haven’t. Besides, this isn’t about punishment. It’s about facing what I’ve done and looking at my past self.

I double-click the file.

The spreadsheet loads. Columns and rows fill the screen, each cell populated with data points and formulas. My stomach clenches as I scan the categories I created: “Professional Competence,” “Social Adaptability,” “Appearance,” “Maternal Potential,” “Family Background,” “Educational Pedigree,” “Social Connections.”

People. I reduced women to weighted variables in an equation.

My coffee sits untouched as I scroll through the document, each category expanding to reveal subcategories with their own ratings and notes. Under “Professional Competence,” I’d given her high marks for organization and attention to detail, and moderate scores for creative problem-solving. As if a human being’s worth could be quantified on a ten-point scale.

The cursor moves to “Appearance,” and my jaw tightens so hard I hear a click in my ear. Subcategories include “Dress,”“Physique,” “Facial Harmony,” and, as my eyes fix on the words, “Weird Button Nose.”

“Shit,” I whisper, the word escaping before I can catch it.

I’d written: “Distinctive nose shape slightly detracts from otherwise acceptable facial structure. Consider rhinoplasty discussion. Children would have a fifty percent chance of inheritance.”

My fingers begin to tremble on the trackpad. I’d planned to suggest plastic surgery. Had calculated the genetic odds of our hypothetical children inheriting what I considered a flaw. Leo and Meredith now exist with their perfect button noses. The same noses I once criticized on their mother’s face.

I force myself to continue scrolling, my breath coming in shallow pulls. Under “Maternal Potential,” I’d noted: “Good temperament for child-rearing. Patient with repetitive tasks. Possible concern: too emotionally responsive, may benefit from logical framework for parenting decisions.”

Too emotionally responsive. As if that were a flaw rather than Elowen’s greatest strength—her capacity to connect, to empathize, to love without calculation. After spending actual time with my children that goes beyond discussions about grades, it’s obvious how much they need love. Actual love and attention, where they’re valued for who they are. My list implies that our future children would get none of those things.

The coffee shop fades around me as I fall deeper into this rabbit hole of my own making. Each category reveals another facet of my detachment.

“Sir? Are you alright?”

I look up to find the barista standing beside my table, concern etched across her features. Only then do I realize my fist is pressed against my mouth, knuckles white, jaw clenched so tight my teeth might crack.

“Fine,” I manage. “Thank you.”

She nods, unconvinced, but moves away. I glance down at my untouched drink, now cooled to room temperature.

“You pathetic coward,” I mutter, not caring if the barista hears. Let everyone hear it, for all I care. Because that’s what I was. I’m nothing but a coward hiding behind spreadsheets and analysis, too afraid to simply feel something, to connect with another human being without calculating the cost-benefit ratio. Too insecure to be vulnerable, to risk rejection based on who I truly was rather than what I could provide.

My hands drop to the keyboard, fingers resting lightly on the keys. I remember typing these entries, perhaps even sitting in this very spot, feeling clever and methodical about my approach to marriage. The memory makes me physically ill.

I close the spreadsheet without saving changes. It doesn’t need updating. It needs to be erased, not just from my hard drive but from the pattern of thinking that created it. It’s about seeing someone and recognizing their value, not because of where they fit on a scale, but because of who they are in all their complex, unquantifiable humanity. This is about articulating who I want to be, what I truly value now that I’ve started to see clearly. My fingers hover above the keys, trembling slightly. I have a sudden want to wash the list away. Redo it. No formulas this time. No weighted categories or numerical values. Just the truth, however messy and imperfect.

This time, I title the document “What I love about Elowen.” Taking a deep breath, I type.

“Your hair.”

I pause, then continue:

“I asked you to straighten your curls for important events. I claimed it looked ‘more professional.’ The truth is, your natural curls frightened me. They were wild, unpredictable, impossible to control. It was everything I feared, but everything I secretly envied. I didn’t understand that those curls wereperfectly, authentically you, and that straightening them was straightening your spirit. The first time Leo’s hair curled after a bath, I was hit with recognition. Now, when Meredith’s hair springs into ringlets in the summer humidity, I see nothing but beauty.”

I sit back, surprised by my own words. They flowed without much thought, which is a miracle in and of itself. I take a sip of my cold coffee and continue typing.

“Your empathy. I don’t have to understand your love of humanity to appreciate it. When you insisted we donate to that homeless shelter instead of attending another corporate gala, I saw it as embarrassing. Now I recognize it as moral clarity. That same determination is what’s building the sanctuary. It’s the quality I most hope our children inherit.

“Your connection with animals. I didn’t understand that your ability to approach without threatening, to earn trust gradually rather than demanding it, aren’t weaknesses but profound strengths. I watched you with that terrified orange cat, and later, with our son as he followed your example. You taught Leo how to connect without dominating. How to respect another being’s boundaries while offering safety.”

The words come faster now, my fingers moving with increasing confidence. The coffee shop around me fades into background noise as I focus entirely on articulating what I’ve just begun to understand.

“Your laugh. I heard it so rarely in our home, never noticing its absence until that full-throated, beautiful sound filled the shelter. You laughed differently with Beatrix and Sarah than you ever did with me. I robbed our home of that sound.