He’s lucky – he’s a baker. Like his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather, on and on. He never had to make a decision. As soon as he could reach the counter, he was rolling dough. Before he could reach the counter, he was dragging bags of flour, rinsing bowls, sweeping dough. Before that, he can’t remember.
He has a wife, and that’s good. He doesn’t see her much, at least not during the day. He’s a little worried that he should be doing more with her, for her. But providing a living – that’s his job. He’s good at it. He’s the only baker in town.
And really, what more could he do for his wife? She’s busy, has her own duties to attend to. He’s heard that in some places, men bring their wives to parties or to shows. Those things are so far removed from his frame of understanding. And would she even like that sort of thing? Chances are, she doesn’t understand it, either.
So this is his rationalization, the conclusion he comes to every day. But baking bread – going through the routine he knows so well – leaves a lot of time for thinking. It leaves a lot of time for him to doubt himself, to doubt the choices he never had the burden to make.