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When I broke my arm, I assumed the most difficult part would be figuring out how to care for my five-month-old twin boys while I recovered.
I was wrong.
The worst part was discovering just how little my husband understood about everything I did every single day—and realizing how far I would have to go before he finally understood.
“Hope?”
I didn’t answer immediately.
Derek stood in the doorway of my mother’s living room, staring at Luke sleeping in her arms, Miles resting against me, and the diaper bag beside the couch that was clearly packed for more than a short visit.
His expression changed.
“Hope? Why are the boys staying here?”
I looked directly at him.
“Because my arm is broken, Derek.”
“I know that.”
“Apparently you don’t. Because you still don’t understand that I need help.”
His eyes fell on the folded piece of paper sitting on the coffee table.
It was the schedule I had made for us.
The same schedule he had 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 had spent every day solving problems before Derek ever had to notice they existed.
Then I broke my arm.
And suddenly, I couldn’t keep doing his half of parenting too.
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