My husband and I sat on opposite sides of an unfamiliar leather couch: Alex on the far right and me on the left. It was our first meeting with Bruce Almo, a highly recommended couples therapist whose hourly rate was way more than we could afford.
We were there for one reason only: to negotiate my salary.
“So…,” Bruce began, fanning his hands out to both of us like a Catholic priest welcoming his parishioners.
I knew not to speak first—to never speak first. Alex jumped in.
“We’re not really here to talk about our marriage,” Alex clarified. “We’re having more of a business issue.”
Bruce smiled neutrally again. This was obviously a marriage issue.
Two years earlier, my husband Alex and his identical twin brother, Mike, started a clothing company named Faherty Brand (after their last name). Alex had a background in finance, Mike’s expertise was fashion design, and my background was in social justice and mindfulness. I joked that each of us only had a third of a brain, but together we might be able to figure things out.
Before long, the queen-size bed I shared with Alex essentially became our conference room. Conversations about the business were our pillow talk, our good-morning chat, and, dare I say it, even our foreplay at times.
“We are actually here to figure out how much I should get paid,” I said. And then I laughed, recognizing the ridiculousness of having a couples therapist mediate such a thing—and also because I always laughed when I was about to cry.
“Listen, I value Kerry, I do,” Alex assured Bruce. “But I should make more money than her. I work more. I care more. I’m the CEO, which means I have to run almost every part of the company to ensure we financially survive. That’s a lot of stress on me. Plus, this brand has been my and my brother’s dream since we were kids.”
Alex wasn’t wrong. He did work more than I did, he did care more about the company, and he did manage more people. But the three of us were in this together, fully consumed by the desire and need to make sure Faherty got off the ground. If salary reflected value, Alex was confirming his belief that I mattered less than he did, and this hurt. Beyond the fact that I spent nearly every waking moment trying to make his and his brother’s dream come true, I also contributed things to the company that were invaluable, though often unseen: building a healthy culture, forming meaningful relationships with partners and nonprofits, creating an expansive community of customers, and ensuring our family values were reflected in the brand.
What about emotional labor? I wanted to say. Heck, even spiritual labor?
“And besides,” Alex added, “Kerry’s just not as committed.”
The word hung in the air. It was true that I wasn’t as committed as I used to be—to the business or, frankly, to the marriage. I’d recently driven up to Ojai on a Sunday night and checked myself into a spiritual retreat center, where I filled pages of my journal with ideas and dreams outside the brand: creating a music and meditation event series, writing a book of poetry, hosting retreats, starting a farm, running away.
Alex kept talking. “And anyway, you’re not like you used to be. You’re not the woman I married.”
We weren’t talking about money anymore, but Alex had nailed one of the main issues at hand. I finally chimed in.
“Well, you’re exactly like you used to be, Al. You’re the exact man I married.”
