I Broke My Arm and Asked My Husband to Help With Our 5-Month-Old Twins, but He Said, “Moms Don’t Get Sick Days” — So I Taught Him a Lesson He’d Never Forget
When I broke my arm, I thought the hardest part would be taking care of my five-month-old twins while I healed.
I was wrong.
The hardest part wasn’t the pain in my arm. It was realizing how little my husband understood about the invisible weight I’d been carrying every single day.
And what hurt even more was realizing how far I’d have to go before he finally understood it.
“Hope?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
Derek stood in the doorway of my mother’s living room, staring at Luke in her arms, Miles in mine, and the diaper bag I’d packed as though we were staying for more than one night.
His expression changed.
“Hope?”
“Why are the boys staying here?”
I looked at him.
“Because my arm is broken, Derek.”
“I know that.”
“Apparently you don’t. You don’t understand that I need help.”
His eyes moved toward the folded sheet of paper on the coffee table.
It was the schedule he’d refused to follow the night before.
Then he looked back at me.
“You took my kids and left?”
“Our kids.”
“Bring them home.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“Hope.”
“No.”
For five months, I’d spent every day anticipating problems before Derek even had to notice them.
I knew when Luke was hungry before he cried.
I knew when Miles was tired by the way he rubbed his eyes.
I knew which bottle each one preferred, which cry meant gas, which cry meant exhaustion, and which cry meant they simply wanted to be held.
I planned the meals.
I washed the bottles.
I scheduled the appointments.
I did the laundry.
I kept track of everything.
Then I broke my arm.
And for the first time, I couldn’t keep doing his half too.
Two days before I went to Mom’s, I was sitting on the nursery floor trying to snap Luke’s sleeper with my left hand.
My right arm was trapped inside a cast.
Miles had started fussing behind me, and my tea sat untouched on the changing table.
Derek walked into the room, stepped around a basket of clean laundry, and loosened his tie.
“What’s for dinner, Hope?”
I stopped struggling with the sleeper.
“My arm is broken.”
He glanced at the cast.
“I know.”
I waited.
Then he asked again.
“What’s for dinner, Hope?”
I stared at him.
“So?”
“So what?”
“I was hoping you’d remember what kitchens are for. Or at least know how takeout works.”
He didn’t smile.
“I worked ten hours today.”
“So what?”
“And I fell down the stairs yesterday.”
The doctor had put my fractured arm in a cast and told me not to lift Luke or Miles with it while it healed.
