“So what?” he asked. “I worked ten hours today.”
“And I fell down the stairs yesterday,” I reminded him. “The doctor told me not to lift the babies with this arm while it heals. Can you pick up Miles?”
Derek checked his phone. “I haven’t even changed out of my work clothes yet.”
“He doesn’t care what you’re wearing.”
“I just walked through the door, Hope.”
“And does fatherhood end when you pull into the driveway?”
He frowned. “I cover the financial bills.”
“And I need physical help for a few weeks,” I said. “Can you come home an hour earlier when possible? Or work from home a couple of days?”
“I have a demanding job.”
“So did I before taking maternity leave. I am managing two infants alone with one usable arm.”
“You’re naturally better at this,” he insisted.
“I’m better because I do it constantly,” I replied.
Miles began to cry louder. Derek sighed in frustration. “Can’t you just manage him?”
“With one functional arm?”
“You have another hand,” he said with a shrug. “You were the one who wanted kids.”
I looked at him in disbelief. “We both wanted them. You were browsing nursery designs before I was even pregnant.”
“I’m exhausted, Hope,” he snapped. “Parents don’t get sick days.”
“I am injured, Derek.”
“That’s not my problem. Caring for them is your responsibility.”
He turned and walked out of the room. I took a deep breath, gently freed my cast from Luke’s grip, and whispered, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
The next afternoon, my mother, Noelle, came over. She found me attempting to clean formula off the kitchen counter left-handed while Luke sat nearby.
She took the cloth from my hand. “Sit down, Hope.”
“I need to clean this up—”
“It can wait five minutes.”
She made a fresh cup of tea and asked where Derek was.
“At work,” I said. “He’s tired when he gets home.”
Mom looked at me closely. “You use that tone whenever you’re trying to justify things, Hope.”
I looked away. She didn’t lecture me; she simply helped feed the boys, washed the bottles, prepared dinner, and left once everything was orderly.
That night, both babies woke up crying. I nudged Derek. “Can you help with Luke?”
He rolled over. “I have to work in four hours.”
“So do I,” I said.
“You don’t have a job to commute to,” he muttered, pulling the blanket up. “You can sleep when they sleep.”
I stared at him in silence, then got up to tend to the boys myself.
Three nights later, my mother called to let me know her car wouldn’t start, so she couldn’t come by to help. I assured her I would wait for Derek to handle bath time.
When he arrived, I met him near the entrance. “I need you to give the boys a bath tonight.”
“I just walked in,” he said, dropping his keys. “Can’t you just use a damp washcloth? That’s what efficient mothers do.”
“Derek, they need a proper bath, and I cannot lift them into the tub safely.”
“I’ve been working all day,” he repeated. “Why should I come home and do childcare too?”
The word too hit me hard. He viewed caring for his own children as an extra chore rather than a shared responsibility.
“Okay,” I said quietly.
He looked suspicious. “Okay what?”
