He slammed his coffee mug onto the counter.
“So it’s all about money now? That’s what our marriage has become?”
You begged for this, Nick. You wanted kids so badly… specifically sons. You got two.
Now you need to step up or stop asking me to sacrifice everything.”
His jaw clenched. His eyes darted around like he was doing calculations he couldn’t solve.
“You’re being impossible,” he finally muttered, grabbing his jacket.
He left for work without another word.
I stood there in the kitchen, listening to the silence he left behind and the soft coos of our babies in the next room.
This wasn’t about pride. This was about survival.
Because love doesn’t pay the mortgage.
The next week felt like living in a freezer. Nick barely spoke to me except to ask where the burp cloths were or whether I’d bought more formula. His answers were clipped, defensive, and wounded.
I didn’t argue.
I just kept feeding, working, charting notes during nap times, and rocking babies to sleep at 3 a.m.
Then something shifted.
It was 2 a.m. on a Thursday when Liam started crying — that sharp, hiccupping wail that always woke his brother 30 seconds later. I was about to drag myself out of bed when I felt movement beside me.
Nick sat up.
Without a word, he walked to the crib and picked up Liam.
When Noah joined in with his own cries, Nick actually smiled. “Guess we’re both up, huh, buddy?”
I stood in the doorway, watching. For the first time in weeks, he looked like he was actually trying.
Not performing for an audience. Just trying.
The next morning, he made breakfast. The eggs were overcooked, and the coffee was strong enough to strip paint, but he’d made the effort.
He slid a mug toward me and said quietly, “You were right.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“About what?”
He exhaled hard, rubbing the back of his neck.
“About everything.Continue reading…
