I believed him.
“Sorry, babe. Work’s insane.”
And I believed him.
Most nights, I didn’t even ask him to help once he got home. If one of the kids woke up again or the kitchen still looked like a disaster, I handled it.
I kept telling myself this was temporary and that Johnny was working just as hard as I was.
His mother certainly thought so.
“Sorry, babe.”
She was one of those genuinely sweet mothers-in-law people assume don’t exist. She loved the kids, treated me like family, and thought Johnny hung the moon.
Whenever she visited, she would watch him bustling around the house and tell me, “You really got one of the good ones.”
To be fair, Johnny gave her plenty of evidence.
I used to laugh.
She always called before coming over, and the second he knew she was on her way, something miraculous happened.
He’d grab the vacuum. Load the dishwasher. Start folding laundry. Suddenly he knew how to calm a tantrum and volunteered to give someone a bath.
His mother would beam at him.
