A letter to my wife, who won’t get a job while I work myself to death

Article here. Excerpt:

'I started my career with the gruelling hours and high stress that are traditionally visited on young lawyers. You were unexpectedly ambivalent about finding a good job – or any job. After gentle pressure from me, and more from the student loan payments, you puttered around in some non-legal positions more suited for someone with half your education and intelligence, and which offered commensurately low pay.
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I’ve climbed the professional ladder reasonably well. We have the trappings of middle-class success – a nice house in a safe, quiet neighborhood; annual holidays; happy, healthy children; money saved for their college years. But it has come at enormous personal cost to me. My stress level has increased dramatically with added responsibilities at work and my health has deteriorated. People who haven’t seen me for years flinch when we meet again and I’ve attended more than one event at which I have overheard someone remarking on how much I’ve aged.

I don’t think I can do this for another 25 years. I often dream of leaving my firm for a less demanding position, with you making up any financial deficit with a job – even a modest one – of your own. I’ve asked, and sometimes pleaded, for years with you to get a job, any job. Many of my free hours are spent helping with the house and the kids, and I recognise that traditional gender roles are often oppressive, but that cuts both ways. I would feel less used and alone if you pitched in financially, even a little.'