“Hope?”
I didn’t answer right away. Derek stood in the doorway of my mother’s living room, staring at Luke in her arms, Miles in mine, and the packed diaper bag resting by the couch. His expression shifted instantly.
“Why are the boys staying here?” he asked.
I looked directly at him. “Because my arm is broken, Derek.”
“I know that.”
“Apparently you don’t,” I replied softly. “You don’t seem to understand that I need actual support.”
His gaze fell to the schedule sitting on the coffee table—the daily routine he had brushed off the night before.
“You took our children and left?”
“I brought them somewhere I could get help.”
“Bring them home.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened. “Hope.”
“The answer is no.”
For five months after our twins were born, I managed everything quietly, making sure Derek faced as few disruptions as possible. Then I fractured my arm in a fall. For the first time, I physically couldn’t manage the household alone.
Two days prior, I was sitting on the nursery floor trying to snap Luke’s onesie using only my left hand. My right arm was immobilized in a heavy cast. Miles was fussing behind me, and my tea sat cold on the changing table. Derek walked in, stepped over a laundry basket, and loosened his tie.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked.
I stopped struggling with the snaps. “My arm is fractured, Derek.”
“I know,” he said calmly.
I waited. “So?”
