Eric always liked to act like he was the king of the house—feet up, remote in hand, while I handled everything else. After twelve years of marriage and two kids, I’d grown used to the imbalance. Not okay with it—but used to it. I worked part-time from home, managed the household, and took care of everything when it came to our children, Lily and Brandon.
Then one night over dinner, Eric casually said, “We should have another baby,” barely looking up from his phone. I laughed, thinking it was a joke. It wasn’t. The suggestion wasn’t the issue—it was the assumption behind it. That I would carry the baby, raise the baby, and manage it all over again, while he continued life as usual.
When I reminded him how much I was already juggling on my own, his response stung: “You’re the mom. Moms don’t get breaks.” That hit a nerve. I told him honestly that his idea of parenting seemed to end with a paycheck.
His family didn’t make it easier. His sister Brianna said I should be more “grateful,” and his mother Amber called me “spoiled” for wanting support. They sat in my kitchen, offering advice I didn’t ask for, like it was the 1950s. I calmly told them I wasn’t a teenager—I was a grown woman with boundaries. If Eric had a problem, he could come home and talk to me directly.
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