This is a further explanation of two of the titles included on my “semi-retired” business card. (Dual Format Bookworm and Spousal Support Engineer)

The phone call came two months ago, and just like that, the Summer of ’26 vanished.

It was an offer my wife couldn’t — and, logically, shouldn’t — refuse. A similar role to her current one, fully remote, better pay, working with a well-respected colleague from her past. I wasn’t in the room when she took the call. I heard about it afterward, which is probably how most husbands learn the major plot twists in their lives.

I considered a counterargument. The best I had was “I have over 6,000 books on Kindle and Audible.” Most of them were free. The rest I bought on sale, fully intending to read them immediately. That argument, it turns out, doesn’t hold much water against a high-level role with better benefits. So we pushed the goalposts. Summer of ’29 it is.

To understand why I didn’t put up more of a fight, you have to understand our roles. For 35 years, my wife has been the undisputed Bread-Winner. I’ve made several noble attempts at being a Dough-Winner, but her bread is simply better baked, more plentiful, and has a much more reliable crust.

As we navigated kids, fostering, and a move to Texas, she was the one traveling when the company called. She worked evenings and weekends to make the bosses happy, while I waved from the sidelines — or texted her from the same room to see if she remembered she had a husband. My retirement is technically rock-solid and investment-backed, but it is not the golf-and-slow-coffee variety. It is a series of Supporting Roles. I am the Head of Domestic Logistics, and my CEO just signed a three-year extension.

Here’s the part that gets me. She’ll be home. Physically present, same house, same zip code — and completely unreachable. My wife working remotely is not my wife being available. It’s my wife in a digital fortress with a closed door and four consecutive video calls.

I was hoping to pass the childcare baton this year. Instead, I’ve been re-enlisted. I am currently a specialist in diaper-related hazardous waste management — an unpaid internship with zero upward mobility, but I’m told the exposure is great. By the time 2029 rolls around, our granddaughter will be four and likely helping her mom manage two or more siblings.

Then there are the hockey boys. Another three years of work means another three seasons of high-protein breakfasts and civilized-living lessons. It’s all penciled in. As long as they like toddlers and don’t commit any sins beyond redemption, the house stays full.

So we’re staying in the wind and the Oklahoma heat a little longer. Our local kids will be here at least two more years before their academic pursuits take them elsewhere, which means delaying retirement only adds one year of real extension anyway. I participated in this decision. I agreed it was the right call. My counterargument was weak, and I knew it.

I am a reluctant retiree, but I have people — and one very small person — depending on me most days of the week. I don’t get paid, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get compensated.

I’ll get to those 6,000 books eventually. I just need my wife to retire first.