He said it at the grocery store when we ran into his cousin. He said it at my baby shower, loud enough for everyone to hear. He said it in the clinic waiting room when he brought me Thai food during my lunch break.
People loved him for it.
“Most men wouldn’t even change a diaper,” my nurse practitioner told me, shaking her head. “You’ve got a good one.”
I believed Nick. God help me, I really did.
Our baby boys, Liam and Noah, arrived on a Tuesday morning in March.
Six pounds each, all scrunched faces and tiny fists and that perfect baby smell that makes your heart crack open.
The first month was a beautiful disaster. I’d sit in the nursery at 4 a.m., holding one baby while the other slept, just breathing them in.
Nick was great.
He’d post photos on social media with captions like “Best dad life” and “My boys.”
I thought we had everything figured out.
“I’ve got this,” Nick assured me the night before my first shift back.
“Seriously, Ava. Don’t worry about anything. We hired that nanny, remember?
She’ll handle the morning, and I’ll be home by three. We can manage this… I promise.”
I wanted to believe him.
I came home after my first 12-hour shift smelling of antiseptic and exhaustion, my feet screaming in my clogs.
The house hit me before I even opened the door, and I could hear both babies wailing.
Inside was chaos. Bottles were piled in the sink. Laundry was overflowing from the basket like some kind of fabric volcano.
And Nick? He was just sitting on the couch, scrolling through his phone.
“Oh thank God,” he said when he saw me, not even looking up. “They’ve been crying for like two hours straight.
I think they’re broken.”
Something hot flashed through my chest.
“Did you feed them?”
“I tried. They didn’t want the bottles.”
“Did you change them?”
He waved his hand vaguely.
“Probably? I don’t know, Ava.Continue reading…
