I was up to my neck in diapers and midnight feedings when my husband found a new way to say, “Not my problem” He didn’t say it out loud. He let a sign do the talking.
From the outside, we looked like we had it all together. Picture-perfect, like something from a magazine.
A neat white fence circled our yard, a swing set stood proudly in the back, and our seven-year-old’s chalk drawings turned the driveway into a colorful canvas.
We even had those matching wooden chairs on the porch, like we were the kind of couple who sipped lemonade and watched sunsets. But that was all for show.
The truth? I’m raising two kids with a guy who calls himself my husband but feels more like a roommate I barely know.
My name’s Emily, and I’m home with our newborn daughter, barely holding it together.
Sleep is a ditant memory, snatched in one-hour slivers between feedings at 1 a.m., 3 a.m., 5 a.m. I’m juggling it all—cooking, cleaning, folding tiny onesies with one hand while soothing a fussy baby with the other.
I’m helping our seven-year-old with her coloring books while my brain’s racing, wondering if there’s enough milk in the fridge for the next feeding.
And Mark? He “works from home” in some vague tech job. As far as I can tell, it’s a few emails, hours of YouTube, and Zoom calls where he mutes himself to scroll through memes or laugh at something on his phone.