I didn’t spend ten years becoming a doctor just to have my life’s work dismissed as “unrealistic.” My name is Ava, and long before I became a mom, I became the person families called when they were scared—late-night fevers, tough diagnoses, and everything in between.
My husband, Nick, always said he admired that about me. But he also wanted a baby badly, especially a son. He promised—more than once—that if we had a child, he would carry the load at home so I wouldn’t have to sacrifice the career that supported our family. I believed him. He said it with such confidence, so publicly, that strangers called me lucky.
Then the ultrasound revealed twins. Nick acted like the universe had handed him a dream. I should’ve felt joy… but something in my chest tightened, a warning I didn’t yet understand.
When Liam and Noah arrived, the first weeks were a blur of diapers, feeding schedules, and that newborn scent that makes you forget time exists. Nick posted proud photos and called himself “Dad of the Year.” At first, he did help.
Then reality hit. I returned to work part-time—just enough to keep my license active—and came home from my first long shift to a house in chaos: babies crying, bottles scattered, laundry piled high, and Nick sitting on the couch scrolling his phone, as if he’d reached the end of his patience. He told me the twins had been crying for hours and acted like basic care was a mystery.
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