I came home twelve hours later to screaming babies, dirty bottles stacked in the sink, laundry spilling everywhere.
“They’ve been crying for hours,” he said. “I think something’s wrong with them.”
I asked if he’d fed them. Changed them.
He shrugged. “They just want you. I didn’t even get to nap.”
I stood there in my scrubs, too tired to argue.
That night became our routine.
I worked. I came home. I cleaned, fed, rocked, charted patient notes one-handed at midnight while nursing. Nick complained about being exhausted. About the mess. About how I wasn’t “fun” anymore.
One night, after nineteen hours awake, he said casually, “You know what would fix this? If you stayed home.”
I laughed because crying would’ve broken me.
He rolled his eyes. “You’re being unrealistic. You’re a mom now. This career thing—it’s over.”
I looked at him and felt something inside me go very quiet.
“Fine,” I said.
The next morning, I told him I’d consider quitting—on one condition.
“If you want me to stay home full-time, you’ll need to earn what I do. Enough to cover the mortgage, utilities, insurance, childcare for when I need help. Everything.”
The color drained from his face.
He accused me of making it about money. I told him it was about responsibility.
He left for work furious.
The next week was cold and silent. I didn’t argue. I just kept going—working, mothering, surviving.
Then one night, at two in the morning, Liam started crying.
Nick got up before I did.
I watched from the doorway as he picked him up, humming softly, awkward but present. When Noah cried too, Nick smiled and said, “Guess it’s one of those nights.”
The next morning, he made breakfast. Burnt eggs. Strong coffee. But effort. Continue reading…
