I br0ke my arm and asked my husband to help with our 5-month-old twins. He told me, “Moms don’t get sick days.” That was when I made one decision.

“I just got home.”

“So did you stop being their father in the driveway?”

His mouth tightened.

“I just got home.”

“I pay the bills.”

“And?”

“And I’m not coming home to start another shift.”

That word sat between us.

Another.

Like fatherhood was overtime.

“I pay the bills.”

“I need help for a few weeks,” I said. “Come home an hour earlier when you can. Take a day if you have one. Ask if you can work from home sometimes.”

“I have a job.”

“So did I before maternity leave.”

“Exactly. You’re home now.”

“With two babies.”

“So did I before maternity leave.”

“You’re better at this anyway.”

“I’m doing it more. That’s why I’m better.”

Miles started crying.

Derek sighed like the sound offended him.

“Can’t you just handle him?”

“With one arm?”

“You have another one.”

“You’re better at this anyway.”

I went quiet.

Then he shrugged.

“You’re the one who wanted kids.”

My head came up.

“We wanted them. You were the one showing me nursery ideas before I was even pregnant.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You’re the one who wanted kids.”

“No, I don’t, Derek. I don’t even know who you are right now.”

He rubbed his forehead.

“I’m exhausted, Hope. Moms don’t get sick days.”

I looked down at my cast.

“I’m injured.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“I don’t even know who you are right now.”

I stared at him.

“I’m asking you to help me a little.”

“You take care of them. That’s your job.”

He walked out.

Miles kept crying.

Luke grabbed the edge of my cast with both hands.

“You take care of them. That’s your job.”

I gently freed myself and whispered, “Okay. I’ve got you.”

I’ve got it. I’m fine.

I’d been saying both for too long.

***

My mom, Noelle, came over the next afternoon.

She found me wiping formula off the counter with my good hand while Luke kicked in his seat.

“Okay. I’ve got you.”

“Hope.”

“I’m almost done.”

She took the cloth from me.

“Sit.”

“Mom, it’s sticky.”

“It’ll still be sticky in five minutes.”

“I’m almost done.”

I sat.

She found my tea in the microwave.

“You reheated this already?”

“Twice.”

Mom knew I cleaned when I was overwhelmed.

She made me a fresh cup.

“You reheated this already?”

“Where’s Derek?”

“Work.”

“And when he gets home?”

“He’ll be tired, of course.”

Mom gave me a look.

I took a sip.