“I have work.”
“So do I.”
“You’re on maternity leave.”
I stared.
He immediately tried to recover.
“That came out wrong.”
“Yes.”
“I mean I have to be functional in the morning.”
“And I don’t?”
He sighed.
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
That was the problem.
Less than a week after we came home, I heard suitcase wheels moving down the hallway.
I was sitting in the nursery.
Sophie had just finished feeding.
Lily was asleep against my shoulder.
Emma was fussing in the bassinet.
At first, I thought I imagined the sound.
Then it came again.
Roll.
Stop.
Roll.
I stood carefully.
My body protested.
I walked into the hallway.
Eric stood beside a large black suitcase.
His duffel bag rested by the front door.
I stared.
“What are you doing?”
He would not meet my eyes.
“We need to talk.”
My stomach tightened.
Those four words never carry anything good.
“About what?”
He exhaled.
“The crying.”
“The exhaustion.”
“The pressure.”
I stared.
“What about them?”
“I’m not doing well.”
I almost laughed.
Not because mental health was funny.
Because I had slept approximately four hours total in two days.
My breasts hurt.
My stitches hurt.
Three babies needed feeding every few hours.
And Eric was standing beside a packed suitcase telling me he was not doing well.
He continued.
“I feel like I can’t breathe in this house.”
I looked toward the nursery.
“You can’t breathe?”
“I knew having kids would be hard.”
“But this is insane.”
I waited.
Then he said.
“I need some distance.”
My stomach dropped.
“What does that mean?”
He finally looked at me.
“I booked a trip.”
I blinked.
“What trip?”
“Cabo.”
I thought I misheard.
“Cabo?”
“With Ryan and the guys.”
I stared at the suitcase.
