When I broke my arm, I thought the hardest part would be caring for our five-month-old twins while I healed.
I was wrong.
The hardest part was realizing my husband, Derek, believed caring for them was entirely my responsibility.
Even with my arm in a cast, he still came home asking, “What’s for dinner?” When I begged him to help with baths, bottles, and nighttime feedings, he said he worked all day and shouldn’t have to come home for “another shift.”
Then he said something I couldn’t forget:
“You stay home and do nothing all day.”
I made a simple schedule of tasks I physically couldn’t do safely.
Derek refused.
So I packed the twins’ things and went to stay with my mother.
Suddenly, Derek was furious—not because I was injured or overwhelmed, but because he worried about how it made him look.
When his own mother asked why I had to leave home just to get help, reality finally hit him.
During a visit, one twin started crying. Instead of immediately helping Derek, I told him, “Start paying attention.”
Slowly, he learned.
He began coming home earlier, handling appointments, recognizing the babies’ different cries, and caring for them without waiting for instructions.
Weeks later, I returned home.
That night, a baby cried.
Before I could move, Derek stood.
“I’ve got him. That’s his tired cry.”
For the first time, my tea stayed warm.