Six Weeks After I Gave Birth to Triplets, My Husband Announced He Deserved a Two-Week Vacation—So I Repacked His Suitcase With Proof of the Father He Had Pretended to Be
“You really did this to me?”
My husband’s scream burst through my telephone at four in the afternoon.
Maisie startled against my chest.
Miles kicked inside his bassinet.
Mara began crying before I had finished warming her bottle.
I lowered the call volume with fingers still sticky from formula.
“What did I do, Callum?”
“You emptied my suitcase!”
A door slammed somewhere behind him.
Then I heard another man ask:
“What is all that?”
Callum had opened the suitcase in front of his friends.
Exactly as I had planned.
“My clothes are gone,” he shouted. “You packed diapers, feeding schedules, that ridiculous shirt, and a parenting book.”
“The book you promised to read.”
“You made me look like a liar.”
Mara’s cries became louder.
I shifted Maisie against my shoulder and reached for the warm bottle beside Miles.
“No, Callum.”
My voice was quieter than his.
“I stopped helping you look like a good husband.”
Six months earlier, I would not have believed I was capable of saying those words.
Back then, Callum Reid was the man who rubbed my swollen feet, brought toast to bed, and spoke to my stomach every night.
He had always wanted a large family.
When we learned I was carrying triplets, he cried harder than I did.
The ultrasound technician pointed toward three tiny movements on the screen.
Callum covered his mouth.
“Three?”
“Three,” the technician confirmed.
He took my hand.
“We are going to be a team, Alina.”
He repeated the promise all the way home.
“Every feeding. Every diaper. Every impossible night. You will never do this alone.”
I believed him.
During my seventh month of pregnancy, our friends held a barbecue at the fictional lakeside community of Alderwick Cove.
Callum’s closest friends, Dean and Oliver, handed him a gift bag.
Inside was a black shirt printed with bold white letters:
WORLD’S MOST EXHAUSTED FATHER
Everyone laughed.
Callum pulled it over his head and posed with both hands beneath my stomach.
“I think I’m the person who will be exhausted,” I said from my chair.
He pointed toward himself dramatically.
“Diapers. Bottles. Laundry. Night feedings. I have all of it.”
Dean raised his drink.
“Remember this speech when the babies arrive.”
I took a photograph.
“I am saving it.”
Callum leaned down and kissed my forehead.
“Save it. I’ll prove every word.”
Then Maisie, Miles, and Mara arrived.
The C-section left me feeling as though every part of my body had been pulled apart and sewn together too tightly.
Sitting upright hurt.
Laughing hurt.
Coughing felt impossible.
Even turning in bed required careful planning.
Our first night home, all three babies began crying within minutes of one another.
Maisie’s bassinet stood closest to me.
I reached toward her and gasped as pain tore across my abdomen.
“Callum, can you bring her to me?”
He opened one eye.
“I just fell asleep.”
“I can’t lift her from here.”
He sighed.
Then he got out of bed, carried Maisie over, and placed her in my arms.
“Thank you.”
Callum returned immediately to his pillow.
“Miles needs a bottle,” I whispered.
“You are already awake.”
I stared at him.
“So are you.”
“I have work tomorrow.”
I looked at the three bassinets beside our bed.
“And I have three babies who cannot survive without us.”
He turned toward the wall.
On the third night, Callum entered the bedroom carrying his pillow and telephone charger.
Mara was against my shoulder.
Milk ran down Miles’s chin.
Maisie was crying again.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m moving into the spare room.”
“For tonight?”
“Until they begin sleeping through the night.”
“They are newborns.”
“I need eight hours if I’m expected to function at work.”
“I need more than forty minutes if I’m expected to function here.”
“You don’t attend meetings.”
I looked at him.
“No. I only keep three human beings alive.”
Callum rubbed his face.
“Why do you always make me feel guilty?”
“I thought guilt usually came after doing something wrong.”
His mouth tightened.
“I’m not arguing about this.”
He left.
During the day, Callum counted every small task he completed.
“I changed two diapers,” he announced one afternoon.
I looked at the care chart taped beside the refrigerator.
“There have been twenty-three.”
“You do not need to keep score.”
“I began writing everything down because I no longer remember what hour it is.”
“You always make it sound like I do nothing.”
I stood at the sink washing bottles while rocking Miles’s carrier with one foot.
“You held Mara for six minutes.”
“I work all day.”
“So do I.”
“You are at home.”
My hands stopped in the soapy water.
“So are the babies.”
Callum walked away.
Despite everything, I covered for him.
When his mother called and asked whether he was helping, I glanced toward the closed spare-room door.
“He is tired from work,” I said.
“Does he handle the overnight feedings?”
“He is trying.”
“Don’t overwhelm him,” she warned. “Men often become nervous around newborns. Perhaps he is afraid he will drop one.”
I nearly told her that women did not leave the hospital carrying secret instructions inside their bodies.
We were frightened too.
We simply were not allowed to leave.
Callum stepped into the hallway after I ended the call.
He reached for the spare-room door.
“Try to keep them quiet tonight. I have an early conference call.”
I stared at him.
“Did you hear yourself?”
“What?”
“I had surgery six weeks ago. I feed three babies throughout the night, and you are asking me to keep them quiet for you.”
“I cannot lose my job.”
“And I cannot collapse.”
“You will be fine.”
He closed the door.
That night, Mara would not settle unless I held her upright.
Miles needed another bottle before I finished feeding Maisie.
My glass of water sat only three feet away, but I could not reach it without waking two babies.
I called Callum.
His telephone buzzed through the wall.
Then the call was declined.
I stared at the screen.
The three babies breathed and whimpered around me.
“All right,” I whispered.
“I heard you.”
The next morning, I began documenting everything.
Every feeding.
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.
