I asked him again.
He crossed his arms. « I worked all day. Why should I come home and take care of kids too? You stay home and DO NOTHING ALL DAY. »
The refrigerator hummed behind us. One baby started fussing from the living room while the other kicked against his blanket.
Something inside me went completely still.
Enough.
The following evening, Derek came home expecting dinner, clean bottles, and his usual quiet house.
Instead, he stopped dead in the doorway.
My overnight bag was beside me.
My mom was standing there.
And Derek’s face went white when he saw what I had placed on the kitchen counter for him.
Derek looked from my overnight bag to my mom, then down at the counter.
Two prepared bottles. Diapers. Pajamas. Burp cloths. The twins’ feeding and sleep routine written out in my handwriting.
« What is this? »
I lifted my cast carefully. « I’m going to Mom’s so my arm can actually heal. You’re their father. Tonight, you’re taking care of your sons. »
His mouth opened.
Then both babies started crying almost simultaneously.
« You can’t just leave me with BOTH of them! »
That sentence nearly made me laugh.
Not because anything was funny.
Because for five months, « both of them » had apparently been manageable when I was the one doing it—even with one functioning arm.
My mom picked up my bag. Derek’s confidence disappeared as one twin’s cry turned into a full scream.
Then his phone buzzed on the counter.
I had sent him one more thing before we left: a written list of every job I normally did between bedtime and morning.
He stared at the screen, scrolled once, then again.
« Wait, » he said, suddenly panicked. « You seriously do ALL of this every night? »
I put my hand on the doorknob.
And before I answered him, the second baby began screaming too.
I paused at the door, turned around, and looked Derek straight in the eye.
« Moms don’t get days off, right? » I said softly. « Well, starting tonight, neither do dads. Have a great shift. »
My mother and I stepped out into the cool evening air, closing the door behind us over the rising choir of screaming babies.
For forty-eight hours, I stayed at my mother’s house. My arm finally got the rest it desperately needed, but my phone didn’t stop vibrating. First came the furious text messages, then the frantic phone calls, and finally a series of chaotic, pleading voicemails from a man who had never once stayed up for a 3:00 AM feeding.
“Where are the extra pacifiers?”
“How do I get Luke to stop crying?”
“I spilled formula on the couch, what do I use to clean it?”
“Please come back. I haven’t slept in thirty hours.”
I didn’t answer a single one.
On the third afternoon, my mom drove me back home. As I unlocked the front door, I expected to walk into absolute chaos—a sink full of dishes, formula stains everywhere, and a humbled, tearful husband begging for forgiveness.
Instead, the house was dead silent and spotless.
The scent of lavender air freshener filled the living room. The counters were pristine. The toys were neatly binned.
I frowned, stepping further into the hallway with my mother behind me. « Derek? »
A stranger—a tall, polished woman in a sharp business suit—stepped out of our guest bedroom holding a leather clipboard.
« Ah, you must be Mrs. Vance, » the woman said smoothly, extending a hand. « I’m Brenda, the lead placement officer from Elite Nanny Solutions. »
I blinked, completely caught off guard. « A nanny? »
Derek stepped out of the kitchen, wearing a fresh suit, holding a steaming cup of espresso, looking completely rested and smug.
« I took your little lesson to heart, sweetheart, » Derek said, offering a condescending smile. « You were right! Handling two five-month-olds is too much work for one person. So I solved the problem. I hired a full-time, live-in nanny team. Brenda’s agency handles everything now—night feedings, baths, laundry, and meals. »
