“Carl believes he should only be responsible for one baby. Since Abby and Talia are twins, I may return to work early. He will care for both girls this weekend.”
I held out the phone. “Explain it.” His face drained.
“You don’t babysit children you made. You parent them.”
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***
The next Saturday, I left with my purse, pump bag, and calm.
Carl held Abby awkwardly while Talia cried in the bouncer.
“Where are the clean bottles?”
“Cabinet by the sink.”
“Which cabinet?”
“The one you open every day for coffee.”
I kissed the girls. “Call for real emergencies, not because you cannot tell cries apart.”
I left with my purse, pump bag, and calm.
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***
By noon, I had seventeen missed calls.
“They won’t stop crying!”
“Did they drink?”
“They did, maybe one drank twice. I don’t know.”
“They’re wearing different colors, Carl.”
My sister, Renee, sat across from me with untouched tea.
“Check the green notebook by the fridge.”
“They won’t stop crying!”
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He went quiet. “There’s a notebook?”
“Yes. I told you twice.”
At 3:40, he texted:
“Where are the extra diapers?”
I typed back:
“The store. Remember?”
Renee laughed while angry. I still sent the answer:
“Hall closet, top shelf. For the girls. Not for you.”
“I told you twice.”
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***
On Sunday, he broke the rule and called his mother.
Deborah phoned me. “Why is my son alone with two crying babies?”
“Because they’re his babies.”
“Marriage isn’t about score.”
“Ask him why he started splitting our daughters like a bill.”
She went silent. “I’m going over.”
“Good.”
“Marriage isn’t about score.”
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***
When I got home, Deborah was folding laundry. Carl sat stained and wrecked, with Abby on his chest and Talia in his lap.
Renee carried a grocery bag in with us.
“Diapers,” she said, “because Carina still protects them when you make it harder.”
I faced Carl.
“Which one is extra? Abby or Talia? Tell your mother, tell my sister.”
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
“Tell your mother, tell my sister.”
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That silence was the answer.
Shame moved across his face.
“I don’t know how I let myself say that.”
Deborah handed him folded onesies.
“Then spend less time defending it and more time repairing it,” I said.
***
The next morning, we returned to the store.
“I don’t know how I let myself say that.”
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Carl pushed the stroller and put diapers on the belt first.
Two boxes.
Then wipes.
Formula.
Rash cream.
Tasha recognized us.
Carl paid and said, “I’m sorry about last week.”
***
At home, he whispered, “I was wrong.”
That night he took the 2:00 feeding with one daughter in each arm.
Diapers hadn’t broken us. The moment Carl forgot he had two daughters almost did.
“I was wrong.”
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