PART FOUR: HIS WELL-DESERVED BREAK
When the babies were six weeks old, Ethan came into the nursery holding his laptop.
I was sitting on the floor between two bassinets, feeding Grace while gently bouncing Noah’s seat with my foot.
Lily was crying against my shoulder.
“I booked something,” he announced.
For one hopeful second, I thought he had arranged help.
Maybe a night nurse.
Maybe a cleaning service.
Maybe even a weekend when my mother could come so I could sleep.
“Booked what?” I asked.
“A trip.”
I looked up.
“A trip where?”
“Cabo.”
It took me a moment to understand.
“For us?”
He gave an awkward laugh.
“No. Obviously the babies can’t travel yet.”
My stomach tightened.
“So who is going?”
“Me.”
Lily began crying louder.
I stared at Ethan while the words settled over me.
“You’re going to Cabo?”
“For two weeks.”
I honestly thought exhaustion had affected my hearing.
“You booked a two-week solo vacation?”
“I’m burnt out, Claire.”
I looked around the nursery.
Three crying babies.
Six bottles waiting to be washed.
A basket overflowing with laundry.
Medication on the dresser because I was still recovering from surgery.
“You’re burnt out?”
“Yes,” he said sharply. “My job has been brutal, and coming home to this chaos every day is not exactly relaxing.”
I could not believe how casually he said it.
“You come home, eat dinner, shower, and lock yourself in the guest room.”
“I still hear them crying.”
I stared at him.
That was his burden.
He heard them.
I cared for them.
“Cancel the trip,” I said.
His expression hardened. “No.”
“Ethan, I am begging you. I can barely stand some mornings. I haven’t slept longer than forty minutes at a time in weeks.”
“Your mother can help.”
“My mother lives four hours away and has a job.”
“Then ask your sister.”
“She has two children of her own.”
He shrugged.
“You’ll figure it out.”
Something inside me broke at those words.
Not loudly.
There was no dramatic crash.
It was more like a thread snapping after being pulled too tightly for too long.
“You promised we would do this together,” I said.
“I didn’t promise to destroy my career and mental health.”
“What about my mental health?”
He rolled his eyes.
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“The drama. The hormones. Everything has to be a crisis.”
I looked at him sitting comfortably on the edge of the chair while I held one baby, fed another, and soothed the third with my foot.
Then I realized something that should have been obvious weeks earlier.
Ethan did not believe my suffering was real because it was convenient for him not to believe it.
He closed his laptop.
“My flight leaves Saturday morning. I’ve already paid for everything.”
That night, he packed his largest suitcase.
He whistled while folding linen shirts and swim trunks.
I sat on the bedroom floor feeding Noah and bouncing Grace in her seat.
At one point, I asked him one final time to reconsider.
He did not even look at me.
“Stop trying to make me feel guilty for taking care of myself.”
Then he zipped the suitcase and went to sleep.
I did not cry.
Instead, I waited.
