ADVERTISEMENT
“Dropping off dinner, Ethan,” Ben said stiffly. “Someone has to help Kyra.”
“You left me there and came here?”
The front door opened.
“Yes.”
Ethan looked at me.
“You let people into our house to judge me?”
“They came because you left.”
Ben picked up Timothy’s bottle and held it out.
“Your turn.”
Ethan took it without thinking.
Ethan looked at me.
Then Ben grabbed his keys.
“I’ll bring more food tomorrow, Kyra.”
“Thank you, Ben. I appreciate it more than you know.”
When the door closed, Ethan set the bottle on the counter.
“I’m sorry things got this far, Ky.”
I looked at him.
“I’ll bring more food tomorrow, Kyra.”
“Things didn’t get this far. You took them there, Ethan.”
“I was overwhelmed. I wasn’t coping with being a father.”
“You were allowed to be overwhelmed. You were allowed to be tired,” I continued. “You were allowed to be scared. You were allowed to admit that you didn’t know what to do.”
“Then why are you treating me like I’m the enemy?”
“Because you weren’t allowed to make me carry your share while calling it my choice.”
“I was overwhelmed.”
His eyes dropped.
“I want to fix this.”
I pulled a sheet of paper from the counter.
“What is that?”
“A schedule.”
He read the list: evening feedings, bottles, laundry, overnight shifts, appointments, and time for me to eat, shower, and sleep.
“I want to fix this.”
“This feels like punishment.”
“Responsibility often feels like punishment when someone else has been carrying yours.”
“And if I refuse?”
I held his gaze.
“Then we stop pretending this is a partnership, and I start planning a life without you.”
Ethan looked up.
“Are you threatening divorce?”
“This feels like punishment.”
“I’m telling you what refusing would mean.”
For once, he didn’t argue.
The next month didn’t erase what Ethan had done, and it wasn’t easy.
Ethan mixed up bottles and forgot laundry in the washer. One night, he also forgot to prepare clean bottles before the babies woke.
I found him at the sink while all three cried.
“Tell me what to do,” he said.
For once, he didn’t argue.
“Start washing. I’ll feed them this time. Tomorrow, prepare before they’re hungry.”
A few nights later, he called from the nursery.
“Kyra, Timothy won’t settle.”
“What have you tried?”
“Walking. Rocking. Singing.”
“Then keep going.”
“Kyra, Timothy won’t settle.”
“He doesn’t want me.”
I looked toward the doorway.
“He doesn’t know you yet.”
That silenced him.
Ethan sat with Timothy instead of handing him back. Ten minutes later, the crying eased.
“He doesn’t want me.”
A week after that, Ethan’s mother called.
“I heard he came home early,” she said.
“He did.”
“Is everything fixed?”
“No. But he’s finally doing the work.”
Ethan heard me. This time, I didn’t soften it.
“He did.”
Ben and Marcus arranged a meal rotation with their wives. I accepted the food, and when someone held the babies, I slept instead of cleaning.
One morning, Ethan found the old fatherhood shirt folded on the bed.
“Are you giving this back?”
“No.”
He frowned.
“No.”
“You wanted the title,” I said. “Now earn it.”
Tara cried from the nursery.
Ethan set the shirt down.
“I’ve got her.”
He went without waiting for instructions or praise.
I sat at the kitchen table and wrapped both hands around my coffee.
“I’ve got her.”
It was still warm.
Ethan had returned expecting forgiveness. Instead, he had been given responsibility.
For the first time since our triplets came home, I was no longer carrying four people.
ADVERTISEMENT
