Every diaper.
Every pumping session.
Every bottle washed.
Every load of laundry.
Every medication I took.
Every minute of sleep.
One week later, Callum entered the kitchen wearing sunglasses on top of his head.
He placed a printed reservation on the counter.
“I booked a trip to the fictional resort town of Solara Bay.”
I examined the paper.
“For us?”
“For me.”
I waited for him to smile.
He did not.
“You booked yourself a vacation?”
“I need to recover.”
“From what?”
“Work. The crying. This house.”
He gestured toward the nursery.
“I have not slept longer than forty minutes at a time in six weeks.”
“That is different.”
“Why?”
“Because this is what you wanted, Alina.”
“I wanted children.”
I looked directly at him.
“I did not want to become a single mother while married.”
“I love them.”
“Then help care for them.”
“I cannot help anyone if I fall apart.”
“You have not helped anyone while holding yourself together.”
Callum’s jaw tightened.
“I am burned out.”
“So am I.”
“I need two weeks. I deserve a proper break.”
Miles’s small hand curled around my finger.
“Who takes care of me while you are gone?”
“You will manage.”
He sighed.
“Honestly, your hormones are making this seem larger than it is.”
I looked down at the baby in my arms.
Three children.
Six weeks old.
A body that still hurt whenever I stood too quickly.
And a husband packing for the beach.
“No.”
I felt something inside me become clear.
“I think I have finally begun seeing the situation exactly as it is.”
Callum left the room.
That evening, I used our shared tablet to order more diapers.
A message appeared at the top of the screen.
We will meet you at the resort Thursday. Oliver already booked his flight.
Callum entered and froze when he saw the tablet.
“You invited your friends?”
“Only for several days.”
“You said you needed to be alone.”
“I said I needed space.”
“You called it a solo recovery trip.”
“I need to get away from all this.”
He gestured toward the nursery again.
I stood slowly.
“All this has names.”
“Do not start.”
“Say them.”
“What?”
“Our children’s names.”
Callum rubbed his forehead.
“I know their names.”
“Then say them.”
“Alina, stop creating drama.”
“Say their names.”
“Maisie, Miles, and Mara.”
His answer came with irritation rather than affection.
“Happy?”
“No.”
He looked away.
“I need a break with the guys.”
“You lied.”
“I left out details because I knew you would react like this.”
I picked up my telephone and called Oliver.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey, Alina. How are the babies?”
“Did Callum tell you I knew about this trip?”
“What?”
“Did he tell you why he was leaving?”
There was a pause.
“He said you wanted quiet time with the babies.”
I looked around the room.
Three bassinets.
Two overflowing laundry baskets.
Six bottles waiting to be washed.
“He said what?”
“He told us you wanted time alone to bond with them.”
Oliver’s voice became uncertain.
“He also said his mother was helping you.”
“No one is helping.”
Another silence.
“Alina, I didn’t know.”
“Now you do.”
I ended the call.
Only after all three babies were asleep did I enter the spare room.
Callum’s suitcase lay open on the bed.
Resort shirts were folded in neat rows.
Swimming shorts sat beside new sandals.
Expensive sunscreen, headphones, and toiletries filled the side pockets.
I removed his holiday clothing and returned it to the wardrobe.
Then I packed the unopened earplugs he had purchased after moving into the spare room.
His sleep mask.
The parenting book he promised to read.
The WORLD’S MOST EXHAUSTED FATHER shirt.
One week of my feeding and care logs.
The photograph taken at the barbecue during my seventh month.
On the back of that picture, I wrote:
Your audience is waiting.
I included diapers.
A bottle-cleaning brush.
A printed feeding chart.
