When my husband smugly said he was going on a tropical vacation without me since I “don’t work,” I smiled and wished him a good time. But underlying that When my husband smugly said he was going on a tropical vacation without me since I “don’t work,” I smiled and wished him a good time. But beneath that smile? A full-blown storm was coming. In his mind, I spent all day doing nothing. He was about to discover his error.
Ryan entered the home like he had just made a million dollars. After throwing his keys into the bowl by the door, he stretched and flopped onto the sofa with a theatrical sigh, ignoring me pacing the living room to calm our crying 12-week-old daughter Maddie.
“Guess what?” he grinned. That new beach resort is taking my folks. I was invited. I’m going next week.”
Exhausted, I blinked at him. Maddie sobbed for hours. I ran on a stale granola bar and this morning’s coffee. Excuse me…What?
“I need a break,” he sighed, like he’d spent the day in spit-up and washing.
I held Maddie, heart racing. “And… me?”
Ryan smiled at me, as he often did before saying something that made me scream. Come on, Paige. On maternity leave. You’re idle. Not like you’re juggling customers or meetings all day.”
The words slapped.
You believe this fails? Showing my hip-mounted infant, I inquired.
“I’m not saying it’s easy,” he said, up and stretching like this talk was beneath him. Let’s face it—you get to snooze when she does. Going nonstop. I simply need to relax, honey.”
I grinned. Not because I agreed, but because I understood my next move.
When Ryan went on his “well-earned vacation,” I kissed him on the cheek, gave him his luggage, and waved from the porch with Maddie on my chest. He drove off with the windows down and music blazing, thinking he won the husband lotto.
Once his vehicle left the street, I started working.
Start by emptying the fridge. I decided to teach him where our goods originated from because he thought they materialized magically.
Step two: deactivate all automatic payments—utilities, internet, streaming. I halted everything.
Step three: laundry. I kept up with my own dirty laundry. I abandoned it in the wash room.
Step four: pack Maddie’s stuff. The crib, diapers, bottles, and baby monitor went in the vehicle.
Then I wrote on the kitchen counter:
I assumed you could hold down the fort because I don’t work. Maddie and I are vacationing. Do not delay.”
After that, I drove to my sister’s rural home, shut off my phone, and breathed.
Two days later, I activated my phone. Within seconds, Ryan’s panicked texts poured in.
“Paige?? Where are you?
“The fridge is empty. I ate watered cereal.”
“Internet off. I cannot stream a movie!”
“Where’s Maddie? You’re on vacation?
“This place is awful. NO CLOTHES. I thought you did the laundry.”
I drank iced tea on my sister’s terrace as he stewed.
Another message appeared the next morning:
“I understand. Okay? Was incorrect. Please return.”
Ah. It existed.
I returned two days later to see what I anticipated.
The sink was full with dishes. Empty takeaway cartons cluttered the counter. Air smelled like soiled diapers and microwaved tacos. Ryan looked like a raccoon in daylight—hair a mess, eyes bloodshot, and clothing the same as when I left.
“You’re back,” he cried, relieved and desperate.
I happily answered, “Sure am,” crossing a laundry pile. “You’ve been busy.”
Maddie erupted into laughter as she spotted him, stopping him from speaking. She was lifted with a sheepish grin and kissed on the forehead. “I missed you, peanut.”
Then he stared at me. “I missed you both.”
Raised eyebrow. “That so?”
“I erred, Paige. About everything.”
I crossed arms.
“I didn’t realize how much you do daily. Everything—not just baby things. Meals, bills, cleaning, laundry. You make everything appear easy. I believed I was accomplishing more since I got paid.”
And now?
He glanced down. I realized I took you for granted. And sorry.”
I came to the kitchen table and gave him a folded paper.
What’s this?
“Chore chart,” I murmured gently. “Since I don’t ‘work,’ I assume you’ll split things 50/50 moving forward.”
He gulped hard after seeing the list—meal prep, dishes, laundry, baby feedings, supermarket errands, late-night diaper changes. All of it?
“Absolutely.”
Ryan nodded at me and added, “It’s fair.”
Reaching for Maddie, I grinned. “Good. Because I arranged a Saturday massage and brunch with pals. Baby responsibility is full-time.”
He laughed after dropping his jaw. I deserve that.”
Half-jokingly, I said, “You deserve a lot more. “We’ll begin there.”
Ryan changed after the “vacation incident,” and it’s been months. He got up for night feeds. He learnt to fold baby clothing without wrinkles. He also planned his own supermarket trips, messaging me three times to ask where to get diaper rash treatment.
We joke now. Sort of.
However, he sometimes glances at the refrigerator magnet with my note:
“Don’t wait.”
A reminder. A lesson.
An unforgettable line.
Though I don’t get paid, I work more than ever while on maternity leave. Ryan finally understands.
He no longer says “you don’t work”.
Now he says “thank you.”
And that?
I needed that getaway.
