Marshall, an over-worked father

Marshall Thatcher pulled into his driveway and slowly felt the rush of the day leaving his body. For a few moments, at the very least, he could breathe again and just not bother with the rush-drive of having to make snap decisions that could bankrupt his firm, putting everyone out on the streets. Not that he didn't love his job, he enjoyed the thrill and the ability to make billions move on his word alone, but the tradeoff had been rather steep. He didn't even know where to begin with his health, pretty much accepting that he would be in the grave in five or less years with the way he was wheeling and dealing. To be perfectly honest with himself, Marshall sighed, the game was a young man's game. There was no room for error, no deal to be missed because he wouldn't be able to be up and focused on screen after screen, be it tablet or his smartphone or the touch-screen at home.

No, he was burning himself out at the ripe young age of 43.

"That's why she left you," he muttered to himself as he stepped out of his car and walked over to the mailbox, waving to his neighbor June, before opening and taking out the stack that had built up in the four days he had been off at the office. Marshall turned and walked into the house, pausing for a moment to put his bags and jacket down on the couch, before he began to leaf through the stack of papers on his desk.

Bill, magazine, solicitation for his timeshare property, a note from his doctor (oh no, that was a bill...f-the guy).

Just as he was about to trash the rest, a manila envelope caught his eye. It was addressed to him but there was no return address. The stamps also had no cancellation marking on them, which was odd given the postal service processing, but he just flipped it over in his hand and took his letter opener and ran it down the edge. It was too thin to be a bomb and with no powdery substances coming out, he sighed and sat back down. Maybe if there HAD been something, he mused, it would be a nice change of pace. He reached in and pulled out a packet of papers, stapled neatly together, with the header facing him.

IF YOU WERE A GIRL

"If you were a girl..." he muttered with a chuckle and skimmed through the pages before setting it back on the table. "Some joke, man..."

He looked at his phone and tapped the messages. The first several messages were from his assistant, which he took care of by saying "put it on my desk for the morning tomorrow." The second were from his ex-wife, Kelly, reminding him that their son Jonathan's game had been rescheduled for the weekend. A part of him wondered how he had married such a bitchy person in the first place. Then, of course, he reminded himself of what she looked like.

The third were from his daughter, Meredith, also reminding him that he promised to take her out for dress shopping.

After spending an hour going back and forth with both women (and hating that he had no spine), Marshall just sighed and looked back at the quiz laying on the table in front of him and decided to indulge, if only to get this day over with sooner.

1.) IF YOU WERE A GIRL...would your handwriting be nice?