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He glanced at the cast.
“I know.”
I waited for him to understand.
He didn’t.
“So?”
I stared at him.
“So what?”
“I was hoping you might remember what the kitchen is for. Or at least know how to order takeout.”
He didn’t laugh.
“I worked ten hours today.”
“And I fell down the stairs yesterday.”
The doctor had put my fractured arm in a cast and specifically warned me not to lift Luke or Miles with it until it healed.
Miles began crying harder.
“Can you get him?” I asked.
Derek checked his phone.
“I haven’t even changed clothes yet.”
“He doesn’t care what you’re wearing.”
“Hope.”
“What?”
“I just got home.”
“So did you stop being their father when you pulled into the driveway?”
His mouth tightened.
“I pay the bills.”
“And?”
“And I’m not coming home from work just to start another shift.”
Another shift.
That phrase stayed with me.
As if being a father was overtime.
“I need help for a few weeks,” I said carefully. “Come home an hour earlier when you can. Take a day off if you have one. Ask whether you can work from home sometimes.”
“I have a job.”
“So did I before maternity leave.”
“Exactly. You’re home now.”
“With two babies.”
“You’re better at this than I am anyway.”
“I’m better because I do it every day.”
Miles started crying louder.
Derek sighed as though the sound irritated him.
“Can’t you just handle him?”
“With one arm?”
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