I felt something inside me break.
“Ethan, I can’t do this alone.”
He shrugged.
“You’ve been doing it.”
“I’m recovering from surgery.”
“You’re fine.”
“I’m not fine.”
He rolled his eyes.
Then came the sentence that changed something in me.
“You’re letting your hormones make everything dramatic.”
I stared at him.
I had spent six weeks bleeding, hurting, sleeping almost not at all, and caring for three infants.
He called it drama.
I begged him to cancel.
He refused.
I asked him to shorten the trip.
He refused.
I asked him to arrange someone to help me.
He said I was capable of handling it.
And then he began packing.
The Suitcase
That evening, I watched him prepare for his vacation.
He packed expensive shirts.
Swimwear.
Sunglasses.
Shoes.
A watch.
Headphones.
Skincare products.
Everything he might need for two weeks of sunshine and relaxation.
I was standing in the doorway wearing a stained shirt I’d slept in the previous night.