When I broke my arm, I thought the hardest part would be caring for my five-month-old twins while I healed. I was wrong. The real pain came from realizing how little my husband understood about what I carried every day, and how far I’d have to go to make him see it.
“Hope?”
I didn’t answer right away.
Derek stood in the doorway of my mom’s living room, staring at Luke in her arms, Miles in mine, and the diaper bag I’d packed for more than one night.
His face changed.
“Hope?”
“Why are the boys staying here?”
I looked at him.
“Because my arm is broken, Derek.”
“I know that.”
“Apparently you don’t. You don’t even understand that I need help.”
“Why are the boys staying here?”
His eyes moved to the folded sheet of paper on the coffee table. It was the schedule he’d refused to follow the night before.
Then he looked back at me.
“You took my kids and left?”
“Our kids.”
“Bring them home.”
“No.”
“You took my kids and left?”
His jaw tightened.
“Hope.”
“No.”
For five months, I’d spent every day figuring things out before Derek had to notice there was a problem.
Then I broke my arm.
And for the first time, I couldn’t keep doing his half too.
Then I broke my arm.
***
Two days before I went to Mom’s, I was sitting on the nursery floor trying to snap Luke’s sleeper with my left hand.
My right arm was trapped in a cast.
Miles had started fussing behind me, and my tea sat untouched on the changing table.
Derek walked in, stepped around a basket of clean laundry, and loosened his tie.
“What’s for dinner, Hope?”
I stopped fighting with the sleeper.
“My arm is broken.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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