I never uttered a single grievance. I managed the feeds, the washing, the sleepless nights, and everything in between because I knew both of us were struggling to adapt to newborn life.
One evening, while trying desperately to get both babies down for sleep at the same time, I simply asked Julian if he could sanitize their feeding bottles.
He let out a heavy sigh, surveyed the living room, and declared that he was completely burned out from coming home every day to wailing children, dirty dishes, and a wife who always looked tense and exhausted.
Then he dropped the bomb that he had already booked a four-day fishing excursion with his buddies because he “required some space.”
I couldn’t fathom what my ears were processing.
I asked him how he pictured me surviving entirely on my own with two infants when I hadn’t enjoyed a single unbroken night of rest in half a year.
He barely glanced up from zipping his duffel bag.
Then he shrugged dismissively and stated,
