“You know what?” he said casually, as though I hadn’t just spent the last hour pacing the hallway with our red-faced, screaming 12-week-old. “Mom and Dad are going to a resort. They invited me. I’m heading there next week.”
I blinked. I hadn’t slept properly in days. My breakfast had been the edge of a granola bar, and I was sipping the last of a lukewarm coffee that had been reheated three times. My body sagged under Lily’s weight, still crying in my arms. And yet, here he was—barely glancing at me.
Not because anything was funny.
Because I was seconds away from hurling a bottle at his head.
But instead, I took a breath, counted to three, and offered the kind of smile only a furious wife can master—sweet, serene, and quietly terrifying.
“Of course, my love,” I said smoothly. “You’re the breadwinner. Go. Enjoy yourself.”
He grinned, kissed me on the cheek, and went off to pack as if he’d just secured the Husband of the Year award.
Oh, Keith. You poor, clueless man.
The day he left, I kissed him goodbye on the porch, diaper bag in one hand and Lily on my hip. And the moment his car disappeared down the road, the real work began.
First stop: the fridge. I emptied it. Every. Single. Thing. After all, groceries didn’t just appear from nowhere like he seemed to believe.
Next: laundry. I collected every piece of dirty clothing he had, dumped it in a giant mountain by the washer, and left it there.
Then I logged into our joint account and canceled every automatic bill payment I could—streaming services, internet, electricity. All of it. Poof.
After that, I packed up Lily’s entire nursery—crib, changing table, diapers, wipes, onesies, bottles—and loaded them into the car.
Finally, I left a note on the kitchen counter:
“Lily and I are on vacation too. Don’t wait up.”
Phone off. Engine on. Off to my mom’s house we went.
Two days of silence. Two glorious, uninterrupted, spa-robe-wearing days.
