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Usually, I kept explaining myself until everyone felt comfortable again.
Mostly him.
But that night, I stopped.
—
After the boys were asleep, I sat at the kitchen table with my aching arm resting on a folded towel.
Earlier, Luke had reached for me, and I had been forced to ask Derek to pick up his own son because I physically couldn’t do it safely.
I opened a notebook and wrote:
Baths.
Evening bottles.
Carrying the boys upstairs.
One nighttime waking.
I stared at the list.
These were not favors.
They were things I physically could not safely do until my arm healed.
The following evening, I slid the paper across the table toward Derek.
He looked down.
“What’s this?”
“What needs to change while my arm heals.”
He read through the first few lines.
“You made me a schedule?”
“I made us a plan.”
He pushed it away.
“I’m not doing shifts in my own house.”
I stared at him.
“Then tell me what you are willing to do.”
His expression hardened.
“Hope, I work all day.”
“I know. I’m asking what happens after you come home.”
He had no answer.
I tapped the paper.
“I can’t carry both boys. I can’t safely bathe them alone. Last night I tried to settle Luke myself because you wouldn’t get up.”
That finally got his attention.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I shouldn’t have needed to. But you gave me no choice.”
Derek looked away.
“Will you take over these things until my doctor clears me?”
“No.”
For days, I had convinced myself that Derek simply didn’t understand.
That we were communicating badly.
That if I explained myself clearly enough, eventually he would understand.
But there was nothing confusing about that answer.
No.
I nodded.
“All right.”
Derek frowned.
“What does that mean?”