“I’m not arguing about this, Kyra.”
He left.
During the day, he counted every small thing he did.
“I changed two diapers,” he announced one afternoon.
I checked the care sheet taped beside the fridge.
He left.
“There have been 23.”
“You don’t need to keep score.”
“I started writing things down because I can’t remember what hour it is.”
“You always make it sound like I’m doing nothing.”
I was washing bottles while rocking Timothy’s carrier with my foot.
“There have been 23.”
“You held Tessa for six minutes.”
“I work all day.”
“So do I.”
“You’re home.”
My hands stopped in the soapy water.
“So are the babies.”
He walked away before I could say more.
“I work all day.”
Still, I covered for him.
When his mother called and asked if he was helping, I looked toward the guest room door.
“He’s tired from work,” I said.
“Is he doing the night feedings?”
“He’s trying.”
“Don’t overwhelm him,” she warned. “Men don’t always know what to do with newborns. He’s probably afraid he’ll drop one.”
“Don’t overwhelm him.”
I almost told her that women didn’t leave the hospital with secret instructions hidden in their bodies.
Ethan stepped into the hall after I ended the call. He reached for the guest room door.
“Try to keep them quiet tonight. I’ve got an early call.”
I looked at him.
“Did you hear yourself?”
“What?”
“I’ve got an early call.”
“I had surgery six weeks ago. I’m feeding three babies all night, and you’re asking me to keep them quiet for you.”
“I can’t lose my job.”
“And I can’t collapse.”
He opened the door.
“You’ll be fine.”
Then he closed it.
“I can’t lose my job.”
That night, Tessa wouldn’t settle unless I held her upright.
Timothy needed another bottle before I finished feeding Tara.
My water sat three feet away, but I couldn’t reach it without waking two of the babies.
I called Ethan.
His phone buzzed through the wall.
He declined the call.
Tessa wouldn’t settle.
I stared at the screen.
Then I looked at the three tiny faces around me.
“All right,” I whispered. “I heard you.”
The next morning, I began logging every feeding, diaper change, pumping session, chore, and minute of sleep.
A week later, Ethan walked into the kitchen wearing sunglasses on top of his head.
He placed a printed booking confirmation on the counter.
“I heard you.”
“I booked a trip to Cabo.”
I looked at the paper.
“For us?”
“For me.”
I waited for him to laugh.
He didn’t.
“You booked yourself a vacation?”
“I booked a trip to Cabo.”
“I need to recover.”
“From what?”
“Work. The crying. This house.”
He waved one hand toward the nursery.
“I haven’t slept longer than 40 minutes at a time in six weeks.”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“I need to recover.”
“Because this is what you wanted, Kyra.”
“I wanted children,” I said. “I didn’t want to become a single mother while married.”
“I love them.”
“Then help care for them.”
“I can’t help anyone if I fall apart.”
“You haven’t helped anyone while holding yourself together, Ethan.”
“I love them.”
His jaw tightened.
“I’m burned out, Kyra.”
“So am I.”
“I need two weeks. I deserve a proper break.”
I looked at Timothy’s tiny hand curled around my finger.
“Who takes care of me while you’re gone?”
“I’m burned out, Kyra.”
“You’ll manage. Honestly, your hormones are making this bigger than it is.”
I looked down at the baby in my arms.
Three children.
Six weeks old.
