When Keith strolled in announcing his solo resort getaway—leaving me, sleepless and holding our wailing newborn—I thought he was joking. But he wasn’t. “You don’t work,” he shrugged. “You’re on maternity leave. I need this break.” My rage was instant, but instead of yelling, I smiled sweetly and said, “Of course, enjoy.”
As soon as he left, I got to work. I emptied the fridge, paused bill payments, packed up the baby’s things, and left a note: “Lily and I are on vacation too. Don’t wait up.” Then we drove to my mom’s house, phone off, enjoying actual rest while Keith descended into domestic chaos.
Two days later, I turned my phone back on. His texts were frantic—no food, unpaid bills, no clean clothes. When I finally replied, I reminded him of his words: “Since I ‘don’t work,’ I figured you’d manage fine.” His apology came fast and humble: “Please come home. I was wrong.”
When I returned, he was a wreck. The house was a disaster, and so was his pride. I handed him a list of shared chores. “From now on, we split everything.” He nodded, holding Lily like a lifeline. “I get it now,” he whispered. I smiled. “Good. You’re on baby duty Saturday—I have a spa appointment.” Lesson learned.
