When my husband Keith casually announced he was going on a luxurious vacation without me—because I “don’t work”—I smiled and nodded. He truly believed that staying home with our newborn daughter, Lily, meant I had nothing but free time. He had no idea what my days actually looked like.
Sleep had become a luxury I hadn’t known in months. Lily needed care around the clock—feeding, comforting, changing, cleaning. I’d become an expert at juggling chores with one hand while holding her with the other. Meanwhile, Keith came home each night talking about how exhausting his meetings were, comparing his desk job to what he assumed was my leisurely routine. Then he said I didn’t deserve a break—because I wasn’t “working.”
So when he excitedly shared that he’d booked a trip to Cancun with his parents, I didn’t argue. I just smiled and told him to have fun. But I had plans of my own.
The morning he left, I kissed him goodbye, waited for his car to disappear, and got to work. I cleared out the fridge, canceled the automatic bill payments, packed up Lily’s things, left a short note—“Lily and I are on vacation too. Don’t wait up.”—and drove to my mom’s house.
Two days later, I turned my phone back on and found it full of frantic messages.
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