When I broke my arm, I assumed the most difficult part would be figuring out how to care for my five-month-old twin boys while I recovered.
I was wrong.
The worst part was discovering just how little my husband understood about everything I did every single day—and realizing how far I would have to go before he finally understood.
“Hope?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
Derek stood in the doorway of my mother’s living room, staring at Luke sleeping in her arms, Miles resting against me, and the diaper bag beside the couch that was clearly packed for more than a short visit.
His expression changed.
“Hope? Why are the boys staying here?”
I looked directly at him.
“Because my arm is broken, Derek.”
“I know that.”
“Apparently you don’t. Because you still don’t understand that I need help.”
His eyes fell on the folded piece of paper sitting on the coffee table.
It was the schedule I had made for us.
The same schedule he had refused to follow the night before.
Then he looked back at me.
“You took my kids and left?”
“Our kids.”
“Bring them home.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“Hope.”
“No.”
For five months, I had spent every day solving problems before Derek ever had to notice they existed.
Then I broke my arm.
And suddenly, I couldn’t keep doing his half of parenting too.
—
Two days earlier, I had been sitting on the nursery floor, struggling to fasten Luke’s sleeper using only my left hand.
My right arm was trapped inside a cast.
Miles had started fussing behind me, and the cup of tea I had made earlier sat untouched on the changing table.
Derek walked into the room, stepped over a basket of clean laundry, loosened his tie, and looked at me.
“What’s for dinner, Hope?”
I stopped fighting with Luke’s sleeper.
“My arm is broken.”
He glanced at the cast.
“I know.”
I waited for him to understand.
He didn’t.
“So?”
I stared at him.
“So what?”
“I was hoping you might remember what the kitchen is for. Or at least know how to order takeout.”
He didn’t laugh.
“I worked ten hours today.”
“And I fell down the stairs yesterday.”
The doctor had put my fractured arm in a cast and specifically warned me not to lift Luke or Miles with it until it healed.
Miles began crying harder.
“Can you get him?” I asked.
Derek checked his phone.
“I haven’t even changed clothes yet.”
“He doesn’t care what you’re wearing.”
“Hope.”
“What?”
“I just got home.”
“So did you stop being their father when you pulled into the driveway?”
His mouth tightened.
“I pay the bills.”
“And?”
“And I’m not coming home from work just to start another shift.”
Another shift.
That phrase stayed with me.
As if being a father was overtime.
“I need help for a few weeks,” I said carefully. “Come home an hour earlier when you can. Take a day off if you have one. Ask whether you can work from home sometimes.”
“I have a job.”
“So did I before maternity leave.”
“Exactly. You’re home now.”
“With two babies.”
“You’re better at this than I am anyway.”
“I’m better because I do it every day.”
Miles started crying louder.
Derek sighed as though the sound irritated him.
“Can’t you just handle him?”
“With one arm?”
“You still have another one.”
I went completely quiet.
Then he shrugged.
“You’re the one who wanted kids.”
My head snapped up.
“We wanted them. You were the one sending me nursery ideas before I was even pregnant.”
“You know what I mean.”
